Daredevil: Weapon of Fate
by warriorfist
Summary: CSU's prize law pupil,Matt Murdock's life is turned upside down through a series of tragedies- but what if Fate had taken a personal hand in weaving these events? Inspired by the Seven Immortal Cities of Iron Fist. UPDATE:Cancelled. :-
1. Introduction

Since the dawn of civilization, there have been those who would abuse their power and authority for corrupt purposes...they are the mad dictators, cruel kings and queens, greedy politicians that wrote the history of the world in the blood of others. But there have also been those who challenged them…lone men and women, gifted with extraordinary powers and guile, who have seen to it that the scales of justice are never unbalanced. They are the** Weapons of Fate**. They are said to be immortal, for even if you destroy their material bodies, their essence never dies, and is reborn anew. Seven is their number:

The Stick, The Stone, The Fist, The Viper, The Gladiator, The Hawk…

And The **Demon**.

Prepare for a part of the Currents Universe you never thought would see.

Prepare to hear the tale of Matt Murdock, son of aged martial arts athlete Jack Murdock…gifted law student, and a handsome, fun loving youth who has good friends and a loving girlfriend.

A good life is all but a guarantee for him as he is set to graduate with top honors from the Columbia University and open his own law practice along with his best friend, Foggy Nelson.

But when he looses his eyesight, his father, almost his whole life in a whirlwind of events and is taken under tutelage by a close friend of his dearly departed father...

He is thrust unbidden into a world that he never knew existed, into a profession that, as a devout Catholic, he would have been horrified before to even consider.

He eventually does learn, however, through many struggles and hardships, that sometimes to do the work of angels in plain sight, it is necessary to take the guise of a demon.

Prepare…for **Daredevil.**


	2. Issue One: A Devil Lurks Among Us!

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

_Present_

**Suffolk, Long Island.**

Senator Joseph Mcladen shook his head in disapproval as he finally closed the front door with a large thud. It was bad enough that he couldn't even have the liberty to have a little wine all to himself by his penthouse in Manhattan; that he had been advised…no, **recommended** by his security staff to relocate to this shabby little house- barely two stories it was, and it's interiors were so damn _bland_- for that particular day…but the thing that he hated most about this ruckus was that he had this damned Secret Service agent trying to check up on his status every two minutes.

It was not like that he did not have enough people around him trying to get in his face during working hours that he needed someone else to henpeck him like his dearly departed mother. Heck, back in the car, that suit wearing hooligan had even tried to check his Vodka to see if it tampered with or not!

Perhaps they would need to test his stool samples next to see if he had been slicked a mickey or not in the three different fundraisers he had attended throughout the evening.

And all of this, for what…a ridiculous **prank card **being found on his office desk all those weeks ago?

All it contained was a curiously detailed picture of a horned devil on one side, and today's date on another!

So what, that someone had phoned his personal secretary, providing an anonymous tip that there was going to be an attack on his life at that very same date?

He received such vague death threats every other day of the week! From disgruntled ex-aides to drug-ridden hippies, there must be at least at least hundreds of people who want him dead for one reason or the other.

Not that they would ever try to actually attempt an assassination; he had…_connections _in all the right places, and if he played his cards right, there would be a new record for the Youngest POTUS in history within the next ten years, and he would be sipping margaritas behind the Resolute desk. Oil barons, Drug lords, corporate sharks…you name it. He knew all the right buttons to push to get them on _his _side.

But apparently, some hotshot in his staff thought that he needed protection from this little prankster, and the next thing he knows, he is being carried off from a humanitarian awards ceremony in the middle of delivering his victory speech by this… _**clown**_ of a Secret Service agent.

He was scheduled to have a very important meeting along with other fellow senators with the Secretary of Defense about the China situation, but the agent would have none of it. He was led through to the back of a rather conspicuous looking Black Ford Crown Victoria, and the man wouldn't even tell him where he was being led to…this was the height of ridiculousness!

And to top it off, that scoundrel tried to crack jokes all the way to this little shack in the middle of nowhere…as though this was all an elaborate prank like that MTV show!

"I really, _**really**_need a good drink", Senator Mcladen muttered to no one in particular as he eased his tie off the collar of his thousand dollars Raymond shirt.

Luckily for him, he had just remembered to bring that last bottle of Jack Daniels with him all the way from the awards ceremony.

Well he still had to celebrate his win properly…so a sip or two before asking the agent when in hell could he go back to his wife and two children sounded like a good idea.

Now all he had to do was locate a wine glass in this damn shack.

* * *

He stood perched atop one of the branches of lone fig tree that stood in the small garden at the front lawn of the house. This must be one of those readymade properties prepared by private developers, he summarized inwardly as his senses scoured the surrounding area with uncanny accuracy comparable to that of a multi-purpose radar.

If anyone would have looked straight at the strange man crouched nimbly on that tree top during that moment, all they would have seen is the dark silhouette of a man, his clothing masked by the darkness of the night, save for the two large horns protruding out of the retractable cowl which also functioned as his mask. The metallic maroon wrist plates that he wore on each hand, along with the light-plated arm guards that covered his bulging biceps shone silently in the crescent moon, but not enough for him to be visible to any prying eyes.

There was something wrong about this place. He just couldn't place it.

All of it seemed…too simple. If the target had been moved due as caution due to the Mark of Fate he had sent, then he sure shouldn't have been transferred from a high-security penthouse in the middle of busy Manhattan to an average suburban duplex in Long Island.

Far…far too convenient.

It was almost like someone was trying to lull him into a sense of false security.

The building was inconspicuous to say the least, at least from the outside. It was almost indistinguishable to the outsider's eye from the dozens of other houses that were lined up in this suburban street; all painted white and built in the same shapes.

Not that all these visual details mattered to him, for-

"_I am blind._", he thought as he prepared to shift positions, "_But I have been compensated for my loss. He has blessed me with other gifts. Wonderful gifts. __**Dangerous**__ gifts."_

He leapt from the tree without making nary a sound, his movements swift and graceful as he twirled in mid air, his hands reaching for his waist. Within the next second he had drawn his nun-chucks, which were already extending with one press of his finger on the midsection, the chains spiraling out as he aimed for the window sill situated on the second floor to break his fall.

The robe like red garment that hung beneath his waist billowed as his weapon safely lodged at it's intended target and he landed upon the grassy knoll without even a scratch, despite the jump being almost twenty feet in height. He silently dislodged the nun-chuck from above and holstered his weapon in it's leather sheath again as he swiftly pressed himself against the nearby outer wall.

"_I do not see anymore with my eyes. But it matters not. He has transformed me. I am now so…so much more._

_In blindness I see the world in much more clarity, for my other five remaining senses have been sharpened almost beyond comprehension."_

When he was sure there was no one in the near vicinity, he quickly turned around the corner and searched for any viable point of entry.

This was too quiet. Not a soul to be found, nearby. In his neighborhood, the city is scarcely quiet even at twelve in the midnight, and it was only past nine thirty now.

All his hearing could register was a faint murmur…barely comparable to a heart-beat. Perhaps it was a rat, or better yet, a squirrel?  
Then again, there was a large rat infestation in the apartment he lived in, and their hearts were rarely as calm and steady as this one seemed to be.

"_Someone is watching me. Studying me."_

He decided to play along for the time being and not let the new heightened level of alertness show in his movements.

He found his point of entry moments later: an open window, with the sliders drawn aside in a most conspicuous manner.

One could not have been more obvious even if he had painted a large sign beside it saying "Enter _HERE!"_

When he reached to grab the glass of the window to see if it has been tampered with, he hears it almost as fast as it happens.

A single object tore through the calm air, it's velocity almost more than sound itself as it races straight for the head of the horn headed man, it's motion linear and fluid, unrelenting in it's path; but it struck only the woodwork of the window sill in the second after, for the man dressed in the manner of a devil had deftly dodged what was certainly a steel arrow by swiftly swerving his head aside in the nick of time.

He immediately readied his stance as he heard heavy footfalls on the grass no more than a few metres away, his nun-chucks already firmly grasped in his hand as he silently tried to measure his opponent.

This man was tall, he could tell at least this much through his sonar-like combination of his other five senses…a good three inches more than his own 6'0" frame if he wasn't mistaken. The weapon in his hand…long and somewhat hollow in between places…it must be a bow.

That was all he could muster from such a range, but it was more than enough to raise a dozen questions swirling inside his head.

He had a guess as to who this man's identity might be, but he wouldn't act upon it just yet.

He had learned long ago, while studying for his…_other_ profession, that one shouldn't jump to conclusions based on pure speculation without having a pillar of hard evidence being present to support that notion in the first place.

Finally the mysterious attacker spoke, his voice controlled and maintained with deliberate pace.

"Funny day to wear a devil's costume.", he spoke, in a tone which almost sounded like jeering to the horn-headed man's hyperactive hearing , "What, you forgot the date for _**Halloween?"**_

His timber and pitch…it's too much controlled. He is _deliberately _lowering his voice to avoid detection.

"You seem to have arrived at the wrong address yourself, if you were looking for the nearest archery range.", the reply was made as both men circled each other, their weapons drawn as each waited for the first move.

"Look", the one with the demon-like appearance began, "There is no need for unnecessary violence. You seem to know of my purpose in coming here. If that is so, let me **pass**_**.**_This a matter of fate…you cannot avert the Senator's destiny no matter how hard you try."

When no reply came towards his way, save for the tightening of his opponent's bowstrings as he too prepared to swing his weapon towards his enigmatic enemy.

All this was doing was increasing the chance of his failure exponentially, but he would play along with this little manipulator…for _now__**.**_

_**

* * *

**_

"Ahh. Now _that_ felt good.", Senator Mcladen rubbed his lips together as he drowned the last bit of Jack Daniels he had left in the wine glass, "Now if only I had a fine little broad by the bed…"

At least he wasn't in bed with his wife for this last few hours now. God, but that woman could whine! She could win an award all by herself in the 'b#!%s of the world' category. What's worse, she has gotten _awful_ in the sack every since she hit her menopause two years ago…served him right for marrying a woman five years younger than him, it did.

He slowly rose off the sofa, his mind already intoxicated by the wine. He was almost half-naked now: he had taken off all but his red and white striped boxers, for he was getting thoroughly uncomfortable in the small bedroom- if it could be called that- of the duplex; there wasn't even a window facing the correct wind direction there, and to top it off, this house had an acute electricity shortage, it seemed.

Not that he didn't appreciate being able to take a drink all by himself in the middle of nowhere, but he felt that now would be a good time to abandon this fool's errand and return to his Manhattan home.

Just as he tried to reach for his khaki pants, however, he suddenly lost his sense of balance and fell face first into the floor, the wine glass still in his hand.

The glass shattered into a dozen different pieces as he fell with a loud THUD.

That shouldn't have happened..! He was barely past his salad days that emptying one bottle of wine into his gullet would have this drastic of an effect of him, he wondered as he tried not to cut himself on one of the stray pieces of glass.

As he staggered out of the room however, the Senator's eyes widened when he realised that there was a really unusual feeling starting to burgeon in his gut.

It must have been that blasted wine!

"Guuugghhh…that f$!%! jokester of an agent must have spiked my bottle when I wasn't looking!", he grunted through the horrible feeling that was now rising up his throat.

He would strangle that fu#!$% with his bare hands if he had to, but first he needed to-

There! He at last located an open window at the far side of the house, and ran towards it as fast as his wobbly legs could at that moment.

"Ugghghg…ullrrpph..", the Senator could scarcely hold it back now as he peered over the window sill, but then what he saw gave him the shock of his life.

A goddamned arrow was sticking into the wooden sill, it's metal exterior shining dangerously in the moonlight!

He was so shocked at the sight, in fact, that he threw up right then and there, over the sill and arrow et all.

"F$! this s#!%! It's a damn trap!", the Senator kept mouthing off with vomit still falling off his lips, "It's a damn tra-"

A slick object wheezed past his right ear, it's tip narrowly missing his skin by a couple of centimetres as it stuck into the nearby wall.

Terrified, he whipped his head around to see an arrow identical to the one he had seen before, lodged ominously in the wall.

"AAAAAHHHH!", the Senator fell down on his back, his legs scrambling as they though had a life of their own as he desperately tried to back away from the window.

They were going to kill him.

By God above, they were going to _kill _him!

* * *

The man disguised as the demon winced in annoyance as he heard the terrified squeal of the Senator.

The time for games were now over.

His opponent realised that as well, for the archer took his focus off the demon for a split second, and that was all that the latter needed.

He rushed towards his enemy, his head stooped low as he swung his nun-chucks around the man's bow before the latter could react any further.

Then with a swift tug, he threw away the large weapon away into the darkness, before countering the incoming jab at his face with his own block.

"Hah, you are better than I imagine-", the archer stopped cold in mid-speech as realised the demon's other hand as firmly directed at his neck, the palm outstretched as a small, dangerous blade drew from the wrist-plate.

The demon had gotten tired of this charade.

He could tell from the texture of a stray fabric or two on the man's kevlar armor that he had recently worn a black suit over it, and he could certainly recognise that smell that came from the man's cropped hair…definitely blond, with liberally applied conditioner and much lesser ratio of shampoo.

Yup, he now was positive who this man was.

He could never forget that stench of cheap beef-jerky coming from the man's gasping mouth.

This, like himself, was another fellow _**Weapon of Fate.**_

"Codename Blackhawk,", he spoke with contempt, anger implied in the undertones of his baritone as he continued, "This was none of your business. The Mark of Fate has been delivered, and it is _**my **_place to see the job being completed. Stick would have your head on a platter if he knows of this."  
"Whoah, whoah. Easy with the blade…Codename: **Daredevil.**", the one identified as Blackhawk said as he slowly pushed away the sharp blade positioned near his throat, "If you didn't know, the Senator was going to be escorted away by a group of additional guards to an unknown location, you should be thankful that I was in the neighbourhood when I was."

Daredevil gritted his teeth as rage begin to take control of his mind.

"_He mocks me through this whole exercise. It's as if though he has doubt whether or not my skills and resolve are enough to make me a true Weapon of Fate."_

He turned away from Blackhawk, his small blade retreating back into it's hidden sheath as he confirmed that the peaking heartbeat that belonged to the Senator had not yet left the building.

"Do _**not**_ interfere with this any longer.", was all he said as his form melded almost perfectly into the thick of the night while he rushed off in pursuit of his target.

"Geez. No one appreciates a bout of good humor these days. What's the world coming to?", Blackhawk said to no one in particular.

As he reached to pick up his bow from the ground, however, he noted thatthe acolyte- and soon to be a genuine Weapon of Fate- was too driven for his tastes.

Years of training under Stick should have cooled the Demon down, but that does not seem to be the case.

"Maybe I can use his…malleability to my advantage".

The half nude Senator made a dash for the front door, not caring to pick up his clothes as he went. He didn't know exactly _how _he was going to escape- he didn't have the car-keys to tell the truth, and he didn't even know where that blasted vehicle must be parked- but at times of desperation like this, and with wine and adrenaline both flowing freely through his veins, logic was certainly not the dominant emotion running through his jumbled mind as he gripped the door handle with his sweat covered hand.

To his further horror, however, it didn't budge, not one bit as he wrenched the handle clockwise and anti-clockwise again and again in frustration.

"Come on, you stupid lock, just open will you…"

All he could do was pray for a miracle.

But within a few seconds he had to scramble away from the door as he heard the sound of footsteps emanating from it's other side, followed by a large crashing sound as the door fell apart right in front of his eyes.

The figure that stepped through the broken hinges was a sight which induced fear in his soul like he had never felt before.

"Mary mother of Jesus,", he stuttered as he tried to comprehend what was the being that stood before his eyes.

Was it the wine that distorted his eyesight so?

As he stood upright, he figured that his eyes surely weren't decieving him.

There, clad in dark red armor from head to toe, complete with the large sash hanging down from his waist and touching his feet...Senator Mcladen couldn't take his terrified eyes of it…him…her?

But what terrified him most were the blood red lenses where the eyes should be…and the huge…**horns **that seemed to stick out of his forehead!

"_I can feel the stench of morbid fear coming off his vomit-covered body. His heart is beating like a jackhammer, akin to that to a fluttering bird as it desperately tries to escape it's cage. But it's all futile."_

"Stay away from me, you freak! I am a Senator of the United f****g States, for God's sake!", Mcladen screamed as he tried to think of any possible way to escape from this situation, though none would come to his fear-riddled mind.

The demon approached his prey with a terrifying calmness, his steps all measured and his posture formidable.

"_There are those in the world who inspire greatness in others by their mere presence, possessing extraordinary abilities which they strive to use for the betterment of mankind."_

Suddenly, Mcladen turned and made a dash for the other side of the apartment with speed which wouldn't seem to be attainable by a man who seemed not long ago petrified by fear.

It is astonishing what fear of impending death can enable men to do in times of desperate circumstances.

Daredevil did not even flinch as he drew his nun-chucks from his waist and threw one of the twin sticks directly at the knee-cap of the fleeing Mcladen.

"_Then there are those like myself, the __**Bogeymen**__ of the world. More monster than man. Mothers tell their children frightening tales of our deeds to put them to sleep."_

The steel of the weapon struck the back of Mcladen's knee with great velocity, the impact shattering the bone and causing the Senator to go down on the floor in a howl of pain.

"_I…am not sure how I __**feel **__about that."_

The demon wouldn't be so cruel as to play with prey before moving on to the kill. Whatever this one's crimes may be, no one deserved to be tortured before departure to the afterlife.

While the Senator lay there on the floor, clutching his broken knee as blood oozed out of the newly created fracture, Daredevil crouched beside his prone form, and positioned his hands above the man's throat for the kill.

"Do not struggle anymore. That will only make this all the more painful.", he uttered in a grim voice as the small blade slowly slid off his right wrist-plate.

"Uggh…Why are you _**doing **_this? Money? Power? Fame? What do you hope to gain by this?", the Senator barked in an almost manic manner, his hazel eyes now fierce with the last burning candles of his life as he stared directly at the man who was to be his murderer.

"I gain _nothing._ This not a lone man's act of vengeance. This is an act of **Fate."**

The senator, now delirious from pain, tried to laugh at the suggested notion, but ended up coughing instead from the blood loss he was now suffering from.

"So, fate would conspire to take an honest man's life? Someone who is a husband, a father to two children? I attend church every Sunday morning for God's sake! You call this _**fate?", **_he now spoke as loud as he could, for he could now see that he could stall this…madman anymore.

The demon hesitated, even if for the smallest portion of a moment. For once in the entire night, he felt the pang of conscience hit upon his being.

What right did he have to take this man's God-given life? What right he had to deprive his wife of her husband, and his children of their father?

No…he must not stray from the path like that.

He was now no mere man…he was a weapon.

A Weapon of **Fate** itself.

Conscience could wait until later.

"You say you are a church-going man, Senator? Let me give you one parting verse to consider. _**Leviticus 27:29.**_", the demon spoke with finality as he brought down his blade towards the man's jugular in one swift stroke.

Senator Mcladen's eyes widened for the last time as he remembered the verse which he heard so many times during mass.

"_All human beings that are doomed lose the right to be redeemed. They must be put to __**death**__."_

Hot blood splattered across the demon's mouth and his body as the blade slit the man's throat cleanly, the life leaving out of the man's eyes instantly.

Daredevil paused a bit before wiping the blood off his lethal weapon with his gloves. He then reached the dead man's whitened eyes and closed their eyelids.

"Requiescat En Pace.", these were the last words uttered from the demon's mouth before he left the corpse's side and disappeared yet again into the darkness of the night.

* * *

_2 hours later…_

**Brownstone, Hell's Kitchen**

He slinked through unnoticed into the opening of the croft above, before taking off his blood soaked cowl and detaching his wrist-plates from his dark gloves.

It wasn't easy commuting on foot from Long Island to Hell's Kitchen of all places, but as they say there's a first time for everything. And it was not like someone dressed like him could exactly walk through the streets unnoticed.

No, he had to take the more scenic route, he thought to himself as he descended down the decrepit stairs. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop, balancing himself on poles, and the like.

He had felt so liberated. Like he was genuinely flying through the air, akin to the super-heroes that now seemed to pop up on the landscape every other day.

_"Enough daydreaming for one night. Don't forget, you are now __**Matt Murdock**__, not a demon of the night anymore. And you must think accordingly."_

Indeed, he need to seriously evaluate his current standings in life, Matt thought inwardly as he threw the blood-covered costume into the laundry pile and made a mental note to himself to get the laundry done as soon as possible: it's why he bought his own washing machine a couple of months ago.

First of all, he should really focus on the fact he had been sitting idle without nary a case at his hand even though he had received his lawyer's license in last January.

It wasn't like the bills were going to pay for them by themselves, so he really needed to get around this particular dilemma…

Then he remembered Foggy Nelson.

His buddy from his days in the law school of Columbia University…yup they were the best of pals in those innocent days.

Didn't they make a pact of some kind that they would operate their own law practice together once out of college?

Hmm…looks like he would have to take Foggy up on that pledge…problem was, he didn't exactly bother to contact Foggy for the last year and a half after they had graduated from Columbia.

Well, there's no time like the present to renew your friendship with estranged law colleagues, he would say.

Matt grabbed his Zeiss glasses off the table and pulled one of the woodlice-infested chairs he had become so accustomed to.

He really needed to sit down and cool off a little…wading through the city rooftops in the night had certainly left his hyperactive hearing jumbled, and his nose was still not as used to shifting through the various tastes of the city as he would have liked. He found it difficult to block out the stenches he would rather not contemplate upon…dried urine, the smell of junkies as they got high for yet another night, to name a few.

"Well, this_ was _your first rodeo, Murdock.", Matt sighed to himself as he reached for the newspaper he had left ajar.

Yes, at such an hour someone else would opt to watch the late night news on TV, but to him sensing the words from the ink through touch was more interesting than trying to make sense of the news through sound alone- after all, his senses could exactly help him figure out what was going on a television screen.

He had gotten half-way through reading the front page story about the takeover of Stark Industries by some Schmidt individual, when the auburn haired man noticed that he had somehow forgotten to get his gloves off his hands.

Now that was incredibly careless of him, Matt chided himself inwardly as he removed the gloves with great care. These belonged to his father, Jonathan "Jack" Murdock, after all, and these were all he had left off after that…dark night three years ago.

"_Whenever I focus on his gloves, it is as though he comes to life around me. I feel his spirit, standing behind me and looking over my shoulders. The scent of his Old Spice aftershave is as strong as ever, as is the talcum powder he used to put on just before the fights…"_

But there was something else too on those gloves, Matt realised as he caressed them with tenderness. Some kind of fluid, thick and coagulated…

It was blood! Of course, how could he have forgotten…it had splattered all over his body!

The smell, it was almost overwhelming. As was the guilt that was now starting to boil over from his repressed urges.

A manic rage gripped over him, and Matt was almost possessed by an unseen force that willed him to cleanse himself of this impurity.

"_I must wash them. I must not let the taint remain!"_

He grabbed those sacred raiments and rushed as fast as he could to the bathroom, almost tripping over the carpet a few times in his hurry. He cursed inaudibly a few times until he reached the door ten seconds later and swung it ajar with great force.

He turned the tap so quickly, it was almost a miracle that some gear or the other didn't snap from his uncontrolled strength, and just as soon as the water had started flowing, Matt almost threw the red gloves under the basin, and started scrubbing them with soap without any signs of stopping.

The guilt was almost a monster inside of him now, clawing it's way to the surface of his consciousness.

The devil and Matt Murdock are supposed to be separate, dammit! As a Weapon of Fate, the demon must feel no remorse for his actions; he must not only act as fate dictates. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then why was Matt Murdock getting giddy from the stench of blood that seemed to fill his house?  
"_The blood, the smell…it just won't go. It just won't __**GO**__!"_

He lifted his head up at the mirror, the tap still running with full force and his hands now covered with vigorous amounts of foam.

He wondered that, if he still had his eyesight, he would see a horned devil staring at him, taunting at him for the little coward that he was.

"GRRAAAHHH!", Matt cried out loud in frustration as his right fist slammed right into the middle of the mirror, shattering the object into many pieces and cutting his hand in the process.

The soap made the wound sting even worse as drops of hot blood appeared through it.

Warm tears dropped down his cheeks as he fell to his knees by the bathroom floor, his left hand clutching the fresh wound on his other tightly.

"_Back when she was alive, my mother used to call me her little angel. She said that to her, I represented all that was good in the world."_

"_I wonder what she would have to say about me if she could have seen the devil I have now become."_

_

* * *

_

_A/N: Yes, a large part of the inspiration comes from Assassin's Creed, undoubtedly- plus, I was fresh off finishing Assassin's Creed II when I started this, hence the RIP phrase and the twin-blades under the wrist plate. The other Weapon used in this issue, Blackhawk, was originally intended to be Hawkeye- indeed, the alter ego of the man is Clint Barton, who carries the mantle of the purple-kilted archer in the mainstream MU. However, this is, as I mentioned in the summary, part of a larger effort between writers managing various titles- Fantastic Four, the Avengers, X-Men, Spider-man, Dr. Strange and the Punisher- under an event-line called the Currents. This tale is originally titled Currents: Daredevil  as it is published in the Marvel Message Boards, and the writer of Currents Avengers had already used a Hawkeye by the time I had finished writing this, so...a last minute change to the name. It isn't the best, I know, but ehh hopefully it won't detract from the overall story much._

_Hope you folks enjoy the origin arc, which starts next!_


	3. Issue Two: Anathema Part I

"..."- notifies _Foggy Nelson's thoughts_

* * *

"_Those who do not understand the nature of sin and virtue are attached to **duality**; they wander around deluded._"

_Present_

**Brownstone, Hell's Kitchen**

Matt winced as another wave of pain burst through his right hand, blood dripping from the various places where shards of glass had penetrated through the epidermis, even as he pressed against the tender flesh in vain with various Kleenexes. He had managed to extract the glass with a pair of tweezers, though the fact that he was not exactly that handy with the task meant that he had cut himself even more deeply than before.

And maybe the fact that he wasn't exactly maintaining a level head for the last two hours had more than a little part in it.

_"Calm down, Murdock. You know that your otherworldly skills aren't worth __**squat **__if you are not focused and your neurons are ringing with seven different shades of pain." _

It was at times like these, when even the slightest scent could overwhelm his senses. This was always his Achilles' Heel: blood loss would take him off his game even when he was but an acolyte in the Ludus. He would have thought that training ceaselessly for hours at end in the last few years would have taken care of that little problem; but even as he carefully stepped down the stairs that lead to the basement, the stench of decayed wood being eaten away by lice, coupled with the smell of his own sweat, mixed with his blood and soap of all things, proved otherwise as he found his radar sense being somewhat hazy even under such confined surroundings.

Well, at least he could still go down the rickety stairs without much incident, he thought with a sigh of relief as he gripped the wooden railings, his tactile senses telling him exactly how damp it had become from the voluminous amounts of…_rat urine _that had deposited over the majority of the basement over the years.

"_Times like these, it is sorely tempting to just sell off the Brownstone and be done with it. Lord knows it's been falling apart long before I had been born…"_

Matt was filled with a sudden urge to immediately cover his nose as he opened the door which led to the basement gym. If the gym had been filthy the last time he had been within it's less than humble walls, Matt couldn't imagine what word he would use to describe the absolute mess it was in terms of the sheer stench alone.

Rat urine wasn't even remotely the worst smell he could identify amongst the various vapid vapors pouring into his nostrils; in fact, he would have considered himself seriously lucky if that had been the only contributor in the absolute cocktail that was overwhelming his olfactory centers.

He had to agree with his dearly departed mother on one fact at least: the modest residence of the Murdock family for the last three generations had it's own unique way of exhausting it's residents, certainly with the maintenance he would say.

"_Of course, Dad would never hear one bad thing about the house. Said that it was the same as badmouthing Granddad Murdock, whenever mom would start going anywhere near the topic…"_

Perhaps that's why this place felt so much comfortable even when he had not…_been around _for the last year and a half. His father had just invested so much heart and soul into it's every nook and cranny, he thought with nostalgia as he made his way, very carefully it might be added, to the small first-aid locker by the wall at the other side of the gym.

Jonathan Murdock, or as he preferred to be called as in the ring, "The Steel Paw" Jack Murdock, had a very strict sense of compartmentalisation when it came to organising his personal effects; his training gear would always be neatly tucked up in the steel locker situated just beside the door, and there would always be exactly five different clean towels hanging by the towel rack by the start of every day.

Hence, the reason why Matt had to come to the basement of all places to get his hands on some anti-septic solution and a pair of clean bandages.

Granted, he could have simply stored the new supplies in his bed-side manners, but he just didn't. For the same reasons that he hadn't sold off the old stereo set in the living room and brought a new surround home theater, or replaced that darn wall clock by the front door which had a large crack at the glass and always ran exactly two minutes ahead of the time no matter how many times he got the batteries changed out.

He felt like his father was still watching over him, and he felt it would be a great disservice to his spirit if Matt just threw things- no matter how cheap or faulty they were- he had groomed for the last ten or twenty years to the garbage bin.

Indeed, even as he felt the acidic sting of the anti-septic as he dabbed his hand with a few drop of it, he found himself staring, or rather, his head pointed towards the center of the basement-turned gymnasium. If he still would have possessed his eyesight, he was pretty sure he would be looking right into the beaten down red punching bag that hung from the ceiling.

He could almost see his father, dressed in his red and gold shorts and his gloves, having a go at the poor bag for hours at end, an staunch look of determination plastered on his rugged features throughout the entire session.

In fact, it was all so vivid to his trained senses, that it seemed like it had happened as soon as _**yesterday.**_

Matt shook his head pensively as he finished wrapping the bandage around the newly sanitised wound, trying not to get too much engulfed in thoughts of the past…for nothing good was going to come off reminiscing about it when he would inevitably end up dwelling on it's tragedies.

Still as he rose up from the old bench and prepared to exit the gymnasium, he had to admit that it was very…_difficult _to not fall back on those earlier, more innocent days…

* * *

_3 years ago_

_4th April, 2007_

**Brownstone, Hell's Kitchen**

Jonathan Murdock took one last swig at the punching bag as he drove his left hand towards it's middle, before hastily stepping aside as the bag recoiled backwards with a nasty amount of force, enough to knock him right into the stray 80 pound dumbbell that lay behind him.

He cursed himself inwardly for the absent-minded slip-up as he grabbed one of the towels from the towel racks, making an internal note to take the other used towels to the laundry as long as he could make out some time in the weekend.

That last punch was just wrongly executed in so many ways…off the top of his head he could think of five different ways to reduce the impact and rather maximise the damage in a concentrated area rather than simply throwing his fist at the bag like some darned boxer.

"Damn it, Jack…", he mumbled to himself as he sat down on the training bench in a huff, "You got to get your head in the game. What's the matter with you?"

Though the last question was more rhetorical than anything else- the aged Irish-American athlete knew that more than anything, **age **was proving to be his bane, ever more so since the last year. Having crossed the forty barrier more than seven years ago, the dreaded age of fifty was looking more and more foreboding as it approached.

He had been a professional in the sport for the last twenty years or so, but that didn't mean he automatically got a rain check on his impending retirement. The **International Fighting Alliance **was not an organisation which gathered martial athletes of all forms and styles from all the around the world in name of "Sports Entertainment" like more traditional promotions of similar trade.

He wasn't going to go through scripted matches and come out with wins long after his peak had passed, like those people like Ric Flair and Hollywood Hulk Hogan in the Federation.

No, this was a deadly sport, and it had taken twenty years of hard work to get to the world stage. It wasn't easy climbing through the ranks, and his battle-bruised body was a testament to that. He had lost count of the number of times he had torn his pectorals, or fractured his herniated discs over the fights. Heck, he had nearly broken his neck on three separate occasions.

Yet, it seemed he had hit a snag for the last few years; the best he had gotten was a shot at the number one contender last November- which he had lost after a hard fought battle that wowed the forty-thousand strong crowd at Phoenix, Arizona- but after that he really didn't get as many clean victories as he would have liked. He was slowly being pushed to the top midcard in most shows by promoters, and now he was on the verge of losing the chance to renew his contract with the IFA.

"Where would they take an old sod like me when _that _happens?", Jonathan scoffed at no one in particular as he brought down the empty mineral water bottle away from his mouth, "I hear that Japan's the place to go for 'free agents'…ughh, who am I kidding? Even _those _slant-eyed b****** have some standards. Face it, Jack…your luck of the Irish seems to have run out."

But he couldn't just give up now. He had devoted himself to the damn job to the point that he couldn't even have enough time to attend his wife's funeral before he had to take a bus to a damn pay-per-view in Oklahoma, and now he was struggling to keep his son in law school.

He just couldn't let that happen. Matt…that kid had such a bright future ahead of him. It's bad enough that he had to be away from home six days a week…but he wasn't going to let the kid get dropped out of the Columbia. Only one more year left until he graduates…by God, Jonathan Murdock would never be able to look himself in the mirror if he couldn't sustain the expenses till then.

"Well, you better start working you're a** off then,", Jack muttered to himself in what he considered to be a moment of clarity, as he picked up the weight with his hands and laid down on the bench, "Time to get back into shape."

Yup…he wasn't going to give up any time soon. He was going to put all he had into his training regimen, and more; he was going to make his son proud of him. He wanted to be able to look Matt in the eye, and be able to think that he had done his son right.

Yeah, he wasn't finished by any long shot, and-

"Graaahhh!", Jack screamed as a wave of pain shot through his right hand, causing the large dumbbell to fall back into it's stand with a large CLANG. He immediately sat straight up and clutched his wrist, the nerves on his knuckles almost on fire now.

What had just **happened **to him right now? Did he exert too much pressure on the weight while gripping, or, was his positioning wrong in the first place…?

Maybe that damn wrist fracture from that match four years ago is causing this. Doctor did say it would never heal right, but then the IFA never did hire many good doctors-

"**DAD**?", Jack heard someone yell from upstairs, his deep baritone intimately familiar to the man's ears, "Was that you?"

That must be his son Matt, Jack thought as he clutched his wrist in order to numb the pain coursing from it; the boy always did have a knack for noticing things from his early childhood; though Jack had to admit that the way he had screamed, there was a very good chance he had woken the morning rooster before it's allotted time.

No more than a minute had passed when a young man in his early twenties burst into the room, the sense of urgency conveyed in how his turquoise eyes flicked here and there before settling on the form of the Jack, who looked up towards the figure in surprise.

"Damn, son…you nearly scared the living daylights off me!", Jack said with a hearty guffaw as he helped himself off the bench, "But hey! Don't worry about your old man now, I am just fine! Just fine, I tell you."

On the contrary, Jack was feeling quite jumpy after the little accident moments earlier, but he wasn't going to tell Matt about _that._ The boy had enough to worry about his studies, he wasn't going to put additional stress on that young man's mind with those things right now.

"You _**sure, **_Dad?", Matt inquired, his hand on his chin, his eyes ever fixed on his father as the latter retrieved his regular clothes from the locker, "Ever since you have been back from that show in Texas, you have been really weird…not like yourself at all. Is there something you are **hiding **from me?"

Jack paused in his tracks and turned back to face his son; young Matt always had a keen eye for observation he had to admit, though it would not seen so from his exterior; even now, dressed in a simple white shirt with a few buttons left open near the collar, and a faded jeans that hugged his legs, Jack could tell that the young man's physique was well-toned by all means, and he could tell by the way Matt carried himself that he had kept up his own training when Jonathan was not at home; but judging by how disheveled the boy's auburn hair seemed to be, and the strong scent of perfume coming from his creased shirt, he seemed to have been engaged in another activity during this morning; but then again, Matt was hardly the wallflower that his dearly departed mother insisted he would grow up to be.

Presently, the young lawyer-to-be noticed the odd look that his father was giving him, not to mention the slightly disturbing grin starting to appear on the man's face.

"Dad…you are giving me that _**look **_again."

Jack simply shook his head jovially before placing a strong hand reassuringly on his son's shoulder.

"Oh Matt, I sometimes forget that you are supposed to be a grown man now.", Jack spoke while a sly smile appeared on his stubble-ridden features, "So, young man…how was the _**girl?**_**"**

Matt almost did a double take as his eyes widened to almost comical proportions, while his father tried not to crack up at his son's antics; the boy could be so unbelievably shy at times!

"Dad! Where would you even get the idea…", Matt began hastily in defense, but his voice carried off when he noticed that his father wasn't buying any of it.

"Oh come on, kid. I was making excuses like that to your grandma when I was your age, so don't beat around the bush will you?"

Matt simply sighed and hung his head in resignation, his cheeks beet-red by this point.

"How long have you known…?", Matt mumbled as he tried to at least pretend to appear relieved in front of his father- it was bad enough he had been caught red-handed like that when he least expected it- but so far he wasn't making much progress on that particular front.

"Ohh? So it's been _that _long eh?", Matt's cheeks flushed even more at this point, "Hah! So I trust she is a good girl, the one whose Eau de Paris is smeared all over your shirt?"

Matt frowned as he tried to edge away towards the door; having such a tongue-over-cheek conversation with his father, who usually seemed so uptight about most things not related to his sport, was unusual to say the least.

"Dad, she is just _**fine!**_", he stressed that last word as subtly as he could without appearing out of turn, "She is in the same law school as me, and I will have you know, we have been going steady for the last three months, both she and I do realise that anything further-"

Jack's rugged lips curled up to reveal a huge grin as he put up his hands in front of his chest, trying to alleviate the uneasiness he felt stirring within his son by pursuing a more relaxed approach.

"Easy there, boy. I know that Mary raised you right; a God-fearing Catholic like you two wouldn't step over the dotted line, eh? But I gotta tell you, it's nice to see you loosen up in these recent years. Your mother would have been so **proud.**"

A broad smile graced Matt's face as he stood next to the open door, while his father made his way back to the training bench again to resume his training.

"Hey Dad?", Matt called out to his father one last time as his hand gripped the door handle, "Do look after yourself, will you? You_ are _getting up there in the years…even if you don't want to admit it."

Jonathan flashed a cheeky smile as he gripped the weight once again.

"Don't you worry, son. You know your old man…still got plenty of fuel in him. He ain't going to go limp on his son in his old age. I am not going to _die_ on you, son. Not if I have a say in it."

* * *

_Present_

**In front of the High Court, New York**

"'_I am not going to die on you, son.' These words still sting my ears as I wait upon the court steps. Dad always said he wouldn't make promises he couldn't keep. I shouldn't blame him for that one though…, as they say, to err is human._

_Makes it all the more painful when this one mistake was also his __**last.**__"_

Matt stood patiently under the mild heat, tapping his steel cane- which also acted as a concealer for his weapons of choice, the chained nun-chucks hidden cleverly within it's hollow casing- while he waited at length for a certain lawyer to arrive.

He had made sure not to get too near to the court entrance- from the amount of research he had done on Fogwell "Foggy" Nelson from his pile of old newspapers, the man had become quite the bane on the city's convicted criminals- securing impressive case wins left and right.

A curious fact when he considered that Foggy was not actually that keen on taking up criminology in the first place; in fact, he still found it a bit strange that a man of Fogwell's…_easily shaken _disposition had found such success in that particular department.

It was not that he did not have faith in his once-best friend's abilities- on the contrary, he had always noted that they were considerably above average; but the man had always been a bit of a quivering idiot- Foggy's _**own **_words, not his- whenever faced with a particularly difficult dilemma.

Though that must be attributed in no small part due to his mother's overzealousness in his upbringing. To say Rosalind Sharpe- twice divorced, and decided to stick to her maiden name when Matt had last heard of her- was a control freak would be a massive understatement. The woman had spared no expense- of both the monetary and the mental kind- to see that her son had graduated from the finest law school in the state, and it had been one of her utmost desires from the very beginning, Foggy had told him, that he specialise in familial cases so that she could bring him into her firm and make it "Sharpe and Nelson's."

Maybe that was the only reason she hadn't forced poor Fogwell to drop his father's name: so that she could see her own name before that of her ex-spouse. He had to agree, Rosalind Sharpe was a hell of a vindictive woman.

Matt fingered around the edge of his collar a little as he heard several sets of hurried footsteps getting ever nearer from the interior. About time too, he thought with relief, for he never was too much comfortable around in suits. Even the fact that he had this particular one, a sleek maroon suit that hugged his body, tailor-made did not help alleviate the feeling that he was getting too cramped in those clothes.

He wouldn't have to worry about that for much longer, for Matt had to hastily step aside as a veritable _horde_ of reporters rushed to the court steps, mikes and cameras thrust to their front as they eagerly surrounded the newly arrived plaintiff, an elderly man by the name of Dean Miller, who was of course escorted by one certain slightly chubby counselor possessing short light brown hair, dressed in a somewhat odd-looking plaid suit.

If Dean Miller looked understandably disappointed, then Foggy Nelson was of a far more sour disposition as the plethora of questions kept raining in, while the two, assisted by a small group of policemen, tried to push through the ever increasing crowd.

"Nelson!", one male reporter pushed to the front while a police officer stood firmly against the counselor and his client, "This is CTV news, what do you make of the trial of Reginald Jones? Specifically, that it has dragged on as long as it did?"

Foggy Nelson gave a short non-committal jerk of his head, not turning to face the dozen of cameras lined up by both of his sides, not to mention the ones dangling above their heads.

"This is the closest real life example we are going to get of the often-coined phrase, 'Kangaroo court'.", Foggy replied in a half grave and half sarcastic tone as he marched on, "That is all I am going to say on that matter."

"Mr. Nelson, I am Trish Tilby, of NBS News.", one blonde female approached the two as Murdock reached for the door of the black Chevrolet sedan that was now waiting by the driveway, "Are you and Mr. Miller considering to settle for a deal with the defense? Frankly, it's been six months since the rape/murder charge and the matter still doesn't seem to be headed for any conclusion."

Foggy still didn't turn around for the cameras as he held the door open for the aged Mr. Miller, who seemed to walk with a limp as he slowly bent downwards to get his tall frame into the car.

"Ms. Tilby, never before in my career have I settled for such an arrangement, and I am sure I speak for Mr. Miller too when I say that we are not looking for any shortcuts here. If we wanted that, we could have settled all of this out of court long ago."

Foggy promptly closed the door with before any of the media vultures- or so it seemed to him at that moment- could sweep in on the poor Dean Miller and signaled for the driver to start the engines while he walked away from the vehicle, trying his best not to get too bogged down by any of the remaining reporters as the police tried to escort them away from the counselor.

"Wait, Nelson!", one last reporter presently yelled at the top of his lungs all the while being pushed aside by one particularly burly looking officer, "You took this case pro bono. Aren't you frustrated that it's taking so much of your time while you could focus on more…_incentive_ offering cases?"

Fogwell finally paused and turned around as the reporter perked up considerably, although judging by the thoroughly annoyed expression on Nelson's face he would have done well not to get his hopes too high.

"Am I _**frustrated**_? I don't know…how am I _supposed _to feel about the fact that Mr. Reginald Jones, born with a golden spoon in his mouth, abducted Rose Miller, this sixteen year old girl. in front of at least a dozen eye witnesses, and, after he had been done with that poor girl's corpse after two whole weeks of who knows what went on with her, he dumps her in front of the lawn of her damn house? That, the mountain of evidence collected by forensic experts hasn't been enough to get that b****** 25 to life?"

All the reporters in the vicinity were completely still as they waited for Foggy to continue on; frankly, none of them expected such ratings gold to fall on their laps from such a recluse as Fogwell Nelson.

"Well, I am only an honest man trying to do his job.", Foggy continued as he folded his suit and placed it on his arm as he opened the door of his own silver Beemer, "If you are looking for opinions, you should ask the public how they feel to see their trust in the justice system being eroded like that. Better yet, I think Mr. Miller would be perfectly happy to iterate his feelings about this sham of a trial, if he wasn't unfortunate enough to develop a speech impediment after going to cardiac arrest from the sight of his daughter's dead body rotting in front of his door."

And with that, Foggy entered into his car and closed the door as loudly as he could, hundreds of cameras flashing away as the engines roared to life and the car sped away from the media circus this fiasco had become.

Foggy hadn't gotten as far as the next traffic signal when his IPhone blared to life, it's screen showing a surprisingly familiar name which he hadn't heard nothing of in the last year; yet ironically this was the second call in as many days he was receiving from Matt Murdock, he mused as he impatiently pressed the cell to his ears.

"Nelson here."

"Foggy", the familiar baritone spoke through the speakers, "You _do_ know that the press is going to have a field day with you, right?"

"I couldn't give a rat's a** if they did." Foggy replied as politely as he could afford to while he waited for the green light to appear, "Anyways, the only reason I stuck around as long as I did among those vultures was because one certain friend of mine said he would meet me upon the court steps. Where the **hell** were you, Matt?"

"I saw that it would be…_unwise_ to approach you in front of those 'vultures' as you put it. You know what, let's meet up at old Paul's bistro back at the 47th and 8th? I heard that the old man's son is running that place-"

"You know you are an **odd** man, right Matt?", Nelson almost scoffed into the receiver while his other hand pressed against the steering, "No contact whatsoever for twelve frigging months, not even emails or damn postcards- and now you want to catch up old times like nothing ever happened…? Oh what the hell. I will meet you there in twenty,…Lord knows I need a break from the goddamned stress right now."

"I would have to agree with you on _that _matter, Foggy…"

"Would you quit _**laughing, **_Matt?", Nelson snapped back suddenly as the car swerved left and took a left corner.

"I am _not_ laughing- hmm, well maybe _**just**_a little bit. It's just that...things have changed a lot, haven't they?"

Foggy simply sighed as he pulled off the tan tie from his collar before unbuttoning his front button as well.

"If you say so. Let's just hope they have changed for the better eh?"

"I certainly do. So…Foggy, tell me, have you heard from your _**mother **_recently…?"

Foggy frowned loudly at that inquiry.

"All the things you could have picked to ask…and you chose to ask about that **hag**?"

* * *

_3 Years Ago_

_6th April, 2007_

**The Sharpe Residence, Manhattan, New York**

"Why are you so **drab, **Fogwell?", Mrs. Sharpe inquired from behind her horn-rimmed glasses, her sharp sapphire eyes observing the pudgy young man seated in front of her at the sofa, "Is there something unwell about your health?"

"_The fact that I am forced to wear __**bowties **__in the 21st Century should theoretically be enough to give me a heart attack…"_

"No, **mother.", **he placed much emphasis on that last word, a completely dead-pan expression gracing face as Mrs. Rosalind Sharpe continued to scrutinise her only son, "I am completely fine."

"_Other than the fact that I am going to suffocate from all the __**oil **__you have applied on my damn hair, you witch."_

"Hmm,", Mrs. Sharpe wandered off as Foggy simply waited for her to leave, "there _is _something wrong with you, isn't it?"

"No, mother. So, can I go now? My classes start at like ten and there's only twenty minutes left-"

"Are you suffering from erectile dysfunction, Fogwell?"

Foggy's eyes widened like balloons at that completely uncalled for query.

"_**Excuse**_ me, mother?"

"Let me make it clearer for you, Fogwell.", Mrs. Sharpe adjusted her bun slightly as she continued on, "Have you been up at night watching fake t*** and m***** while you are supposed to study for the term papers?"

"_Would someone kill me right now? Better yet, would someone kill __**her **__please?"_

"Mother, I don't know what you are trying to insinuate right now, but I _really _need to get going you see.", Foggy hastily stood up and reached for his books, only to find his ever stalwart mother standing in his way.

"Well, if that is not the case, then pray do tell what is bothering your insipid mind, Fogwell? Because, frankly, you look like someone who has something particularly unpleasant stuck up his a**e."

"Well, actually there is this one thing…dad called yesterday. He says he is in New York for this book tour he had been on…and he had asked if he could, you know, come visit me while he is here."

Mrs. Sharpe's lips curled to reveal a very twisted sneer as she turned around and gently shoved her son's books into his arms.

"If you think that I am going to allow that hippie set foot onto these premises, Fogwell, then honestly I am thoroughly disappointed in your way of thinking. Anyways…don't let my meanderings keep you from your classes now."

"Of course, mother."

Foggy almost raced to reach for the door handle, not wanting to spend another additional second in his dear mother's vicinity lest she find some other point to ramble about.

_,Dear Lord in Heaven above, how can someone be so pretentious and down-right nagging at once? She should get an award for that._

_She would put the proverbial Jewish Mother to shame, I bet."_

_

* * *

_

Present

**Paul's Bistro, Hell's Kitchen**

"So you finally worked out the nerve to move out of the house, eh?", Matt inquired without sounding unduly curious as he set his forks to the steak, while Foggy eyed the blind man with curious eyes.

"Oh yeah. That, and much more. You should have _**seen **_the look on her face when I told her that I had switched to criminology from family. It was like someone had put her dried innards on a **vise grip** and squeezed as hard as possible."

Matt choked on his steak before drowning it down with a glass of water.

"That was an _odd_ metaphor to make, Foggy.", Matt coughed as he wiped the stray pieces off his chin with a napkin, "But I am glad that you have put that all behind you. Now if you-"

"You know, it's really weird.", Foggy spoke in a quiet tone, before pausing to elaborate for the somewhat surprised Matt Murdock, "How you speak now, I mean. You somehow sound more…what's that word, _**eloquent.**_ Like you choose your words very carefully. In fact, you seem much more reserved than you are would want me to believe."

Matt simply curled his lips before biting on another piece of the steak, the dim light reflecting on his red-tinted Zeiss glasses.

"You know, when I saw you at the graduation ceremony a year and a half ago, you were exactly like this.", Foggy remarked, his hazel eyes solely fixed on Matt's visage, "Trying to appear all normal and cheery on the outside, but I could tell something was eating you out inside. At that time, I simply chalked it down to your accidents a few months before, and- well of course there was that matter with Jack. It was a phase, I told myself."

"But here you are, a good two inches broader in the chest,", Matt smiled sheepishly at that," and trying to act like we are here after one of those dreadful two hour lectures from Mr. Scheinbaum-"

"He _**did **_like to drone on and on back then, didn't he, that old man?", Matt offered as he attempted to steer the conversation in another direction, but Foggy would have none of it.

"Yeah, the guy liked to talk- but the thing is, Matt," Foggy gulped as he drowned his last few dregs of wine before continuing on, "The thing _is,_ you have really changed haven't you? I mean, I am not saying I am the same- Lord knows I used to much** fatter, **for one thing- but you have changed more than _**most.**_Whatever the hell happened to you, Matt?"

Matt gave a simple shake of his head before calling for the waiter to send for the bill, before, his expression now somewhat sober, he leveled his glasses towards his friend.

"I grew up, Foggy. No one can survive on dreams and hopes for his entire life. At least not **me.** But hey…"

Matt grinned once again as he extended his right hand towards Foggy over the table.

"Let bygones by bygones, alright? I suspect you have come to a decision about the prospect of our joint practice?"

"Well…", Foggy scratched his chin as his eyes wandered down the table cloth, "I have to say I have never heard of two criminal counselors opening up a firm before and managing to achieve much _**success**__…_"

Matt still did not withdraw his hand as his smile simply grew broader.

"And _I_ have not heard someone managing to be Valedictorian from after having switched to criminology from family in mid-course."

"Nonsense, you know that was supposed to be **you** on that stage- but, well I guess you have a point. You do realise, though, that it's going to be "**Nelson **andMurdock**" **on the registry right? You said that you got the bar license a year later than the rest of the class, so-"

"Oh, trust me when I say I would not have it any other way. Now would you please extend your hand already, Foggy? We are _partners _from now on, for God's sake."

Foggy grinned from ear to ear as he took his dear friend's hand and shook it vigorously; but the two friends were unfortunately disturbed in their quiet jubilation moments later as Matt's phone blared to life on the circular table.

Matt frowned slightly as he flipped the cover and pressed the device to his ear; he had no idea who would call him at this hour, and wondered who exactly he had given this number to in recent months-

"_Greetings, my cub.", _Matt became alert almost immediately as he heard that gentle whisper emanate from the speakers, "_That you completed your initiation a night ago is joyous news to me, but I fear our work here is but only beginning. Rendezvous at the Ludus by 1100 hours sharp, for we have much to discuss. The Stick has yet plenty to teach the Demon in the ways of Fate."_

"_Of course. In my steadfastness to arrange my civilian life in order, I had given almost no thought to what lay ahead for the demon._

_That must be rectified presently."_

"Who _was _that?", Foggy inquired in a merry mood as he put the bill on the table despite many remonstrationsfrom Matt who had taken out his own wallet as well.

"A wrong number.", Matt replied as he put away his wallet in resignation and grabbed his maroon suit which hung on the chair beside him.

"Awfully _long_ time for you to realise that it was a wrong number.", Foggy commented as both rose from the table at length.

"My mind must have been focused on something else then.", Matt parried back with one of his patented grins as he fetched his walking cane and tapped the steel on the floor.

_"He suspects there is more to the matter, but I can hear his heartbeat slowing down. He does not want to pursue the truth behind it, at least for the time being."_

"Oh well, I suppose it's time we get looking for premises eh?", Foggy offered as a curt waiter held the door open for the two gentlemen.

Matt simply nodded as they stepped outside the bistro, his mind already swimming with thoughts of his other life.

_"Before long, it will be time for Daredevil to act as the messenger of fate once again; I only pray that my nerves will be steeled before I am called to serve. _

_You are a hand of Fate. You are without emotion and without opinion; you only act with impunity._

_You must remember that." _


	4. Issue Three: Anathema Part II

**The Ludus **

Stone stood steadfast in the dark, dank room- the heat and humidity of his surroundings felt even more so by the fact that his torso and face were covered with a thick white draping cloth, with the only gap left in between being space for his distant, hazel eyes, which peered into the old fashioned wall mirror that stood in front of him in the dimly lit constricts of the room. He looked like a daunting, ambiguous figure, draped in mystery and intrigue, straight out of the Arabian Nights lore; his strikingly white ensemble, completed by the baggy white trousers and light grey boots, further reinforcement this effect- making him look like an out of place desert Bedouin somehow stranded in an urban area by mistake.

He did not mind his attire though- it paid homage to his true ancestors, the ones from whom his inner spirit could claim true heritage; for the Hebrews of old were indeed wanderers of the desert in scorching heat, driven from and then searching for their true home of Zion after their forced exile- yet it showed respect for his _other_ heritage as well, the one that his spirit had inherited after he had become a Weapon of Fate- that of the shadowy world of the assassins.

Even in waiting he did justice to his name- for his body remained motionless, with nary a sign of muscle movement even under the somewhat unfavourable conditions the room was in.

He remained unmoving and unblinking even as his mentor and leader- the elder man only known to his fellow members of the brotherhood as Stick- lightly paced about the worn wooden table a few feet away, surrounded by the multitude of book shelves stocked throughout the expanse of the room- not surprising considering the fact that it also doubled as the library of the brotherhood, in addition, of course being the place where Stick would take his sabbaticals when he was not off somewhere else in the world.

The eponymous staff of his master lay on it's holding place by the old chair where he would sit for hours at end, examining the texts and scrolls he would acquire with minute detail- but the diminutive elder had no thought for neither, for he seemed to be thoroughly annoyed for some reason. Garbed in a rather modest and simple looking attire, consisting of a green shirt left untucked, it's edges falling against a pair of baggy grey trousers- an outfit that would be more in home on the figure of a more quaint, ordinary person than he- but Stone was well used to his eccentricities by this point. He did, after all, spend most of his adult life under the Chinaman's tutelage, and in the more recent years, after the Ludus had been opened and the brotherhood had truly began, he had acted as the caretaker for the grounds, not to mention the fact that he hand-trained each and every one of the subsequent Weapons of Fate in the arts, before they decided to pick the art in which they were to immerse themselves in.

He didn't really carry out assassinations any more- a welcome fact, since he was nearing his mid forties by now- but he was content. The Ludus was his home now, and he knew each and every corner of this hallowed ground. Even though he didn't know much of the arcane languages used in the text of the thousands of books housed in the library, but he could identify each and every one of them by heart- so many times had he had to arrange them in alphabetical order after Stick would leave them willy nilly and spread open on the reading table, forgetting as always to tuck them in their rightful places.

Presently, his eyes once again focused on the form of his master, whose one hand now gripped the edge of the aforementioned one chair that stood by the table, while aged- but otherwise healthy for a man of his advanced age- fingers belonging to the other hand stroked his silvery beard, numerous curses being silently mouthed by the old man in his native Mandarin (or perhaps one of the many ancient tongues he had learned of throughout the years) as his usually sharp eyes now bleak and distant, his dull green irises showing underlying worry that was obviously eating at his nerves at the moment; but he tried to mask it under the pretense of mock outrage at the fact that the one single light above his head had been flickering on and off with alarming frequency for the last twenty or so minutes.

In fact, all things electrical in the Ludus had been malfunctioning rather spectacularly during that time now that he thought about it.

"For the sake of Mao's receding hairline,", Stick scoffed in his wheezy voice while Stone had to exercise considerable restraint on himself so that he did not break out laughing, "What _is _wrong with the damnable electricity in this building…? It is worse than that time in Ho Chin Min City when I-"

"Sensei," Stone spoke for the first time in the last hour or so (he was a firm believer of the 'speak when spoken to' discipline when it came to Stick), his deep but accented voice, with the obvious Balkan undertones seeping through to the surface as he continued onwards, "I don't like to correct your statements in general…but, about Mao Zedong… he doesn't have a receding hairline at the present. He _can't_ with his present condition, actually."

Stick gave an exasperated frown and turned towards his very first disciple- now a master in his own right.

"Do not run around in circles with me, Stone!, Stick chided him in a frustrated yet somewhat affectionate manner, "If you didn't notice that it was a metaphor I was using to make a point, and I would rather you wouldn't roll off on a tangent like that, you know."

Stone bowed his head reverently for a moment before replying, while Stick resumed his pacing by the table once again.

"Apologies, Sensei. But, my humble intent was only to point out the fact that Chairman Mao has been, unfortunately and irrevocably, **dead** for the last thirty-four years. It was _**you **_who assassinated him in his own sleeping quarters, after all."

Stick observed Stone for a good thirty seconds, his eyes squinted very closely all the while the student remained perfectly stationary in his position, now that both parties were eerily silent.

Then the man merely broke into a hearty guffaw, albeit a very shrill sounding one, before it ended in a small fit of coughs and he had to sit down on his chair to get a grip on his frail nerves for a moment.

Stone almost forgot all pretense of his duty and rushed in to help his master, but Stick raised a hand to halt him, while he slowly stood up straight and flashed a reassuring smile towards him, although it _was _noticeable that he was a bit more strained now than before.

"My word…but Stone, you have been in my company for too long!", Stick wheezed as he wiped the sweat off his temple with a grey handkerchief.

Stone allowed himself a small smile under the white turban like garment- it was true, that he could only really break out of his usually rocky exterior in the presence of Stick, or perhaps also when he used to train the Demon fledgling. Then again, the former acolyte and Stick _did _have many other things in common with each other.

Speaking of the Demon, one slick and almost unseen form slipped through the skylight opening intentionally left in the wooden ceiling, the movements exhibited by the shadowy figure graceful and somewhat deadly at the same time as he dropped on the ground without making nary a sound; a lethal predator of the night, with the huge horns sticking out of the dark red cowl being more than enough to strike terrible fear into the hearts of any other than the two master assassins present in the room.

At that moment, the large wall clock behind him struck a loud chord as it signified that it was 11'o clock- he had been punctual as always, Stone noted with a silent grin as the one called Daredevil rose from his crouched position, and Stick noted his arrival with a smile creeping into his aged face.

"Greetings, Sensei.", he proclaimed, his head bowed low and the deepness of his voice and his general composure always making seem much more advanced in years than he was in physical terms; he turned to the ever vigilant figure of Stone to the right and bowed once again, "It is an honor as always, Doctore."

Doctore- it was a title that was bestowed upon those who forged the slaves and the unmentionables- criminals and the like- into gladiators, honorable and almost godlike in ancient Rome. Just as Ludus was simply a term used for those training grounds where the forging had been done.

"Likewise.", Stone nodded in recognition, not adding anything more lest he speak out of turn before his master.

Stick grinned from ear to ear for a moment before his eyesight drifted off to somewhere else as though he had just forgotten what subject he was about to bring up with the newly anointed Weapon of Fate.

"_Sensei has been a tad bit…__**forgetful **__as of late."_

Then his green irises seemed to spark with fervor the moment after as they focused once again on the crimson leather-clad devil in front of him.

"_Then again, he does recover from his momentary lapses rather quickly, so I can't really fault his old age for-"_

"Ahh, so my youngest disciple, what would be your opinion on the sordid state of the Ludus' **electrical grid**?"

"_Or, maybe I was too hasty in declaring him completely free from the vagaries of old age."_

Daredevil tried not to let the incredulity of the situation get to him, as he stifled a rather audible gasp and tried a more…rational approach, if that was possible that is.

"I am not entirely…_sure _how I may answer that question, Sensei-"

Stick sighed as his eyes drifted upwards towards the roof before shaking his head, much to Stone's silent amusement and the demon's utter bemusement.

"It is not a matter of rocket science, cub.", Stick chided as another cough wheezed out of his veteran lungs, "Even in case of _**idiosyncratic **_queries such as this one, do not be daunted by it's scope- whether seeming too large or too mundane. I have a feeling- this instinct, as some may call it, that you _**do **_know of this. Whether you are _aware _of it, that is the true question."  
The young disciple nodded, although he was still at a loss.

"I…well, I did come upon a rather large disturbance of the…superhuman nature earlier this morning during my usual trek through the rooftops over here. There _was _this admittedly tremendous discharge of energy in the ensuing fight, total chaos everywhere... and maybe this had…?"

"_Way to go, Murdock. You are grasping at straws here, and very feeble straws at that."_

Stone suddenly remembered something that sounded strangely similar to what Matt had just said, and moments later he realised where had heard this before.

"Hmm, I saw this on the 10'o clock news on NBS.", Stone spoke in a matter of fact voice, the Balkan accent permeating every syllable as he continued, "There was this rally of sorts celebrating the public execution of the supposed true perpetrators of 9/11, and the whole thing devolved into a brawl rather quickly and in a very spectacular fashion, it might be added, when a **Chinese** task force of mutants started-"*

*- _As told in Currents: X-Men #15 and 16 from Str8upevl!_  
Now it was Stick's turn to be utterly surprised as he turned towards Stone, fingers rapidly stroking his willowy beard as he interrupted the white-clad man within his explanation.

"Sounds like you have been putting that large 40 inch TV you so erroneously pursued me to provide funds for to good use, Stone. I had fears that you were already too addicted to American daytime shows with the _old _one- but fortunately they are all allayed for now, aren't they?"

Stone merely bowed reverently in reply, though he suspected that Stick did catch that little snicker that had crept up behind the white drapings as he did so.

But Stick did not pursue such trivial matters any longer, and he turned once again to face his latest acolyte-to-be-assassin, who tensed up once again as all attention had been directed toward himself once again.

"I apologise, if I went off on such a wide tangent moments earlier…" Stone sighed a bit before continuing on, "but we _are _on the precipice of a momentous occasion. You have carried out your first deed as a weapon, have you not?"

The demon gave a solemn nod, remembering all too well how the terror of the deed had gripped him when he least expected it.

"That was but the first step in a rite of passage, cub. You are yet to receive the **true **mark of your brotherhood."

Daredevil listened attentively, all others thoughts driven from his head for the moment as he focused entirely on the words of his Sensei.

"In three days' time…we are to meet again on one of the leylines of this city. A sacred place where you can be truly anointed as the messenger of fate for its denizens. The **others **will be there too. It will be the first time the Seven will be assembled in **generations, **cub."

"I…understand. I am ready, Sensei."  
Stick raised his arm and placed a palm on his prize pupil's left shoulder, a mixture of pride and reassurance in his expressions as he observed how his ward had really matured and grown over the space of such few years.

"Then _go, _cub. Do what you will to get your life in order, then prepare for what must lay ahead."

Daredevil nodded one final time before he leapt upwards and caught hold of the wooden ledges just below the skylight, before swinging around and balancing himself on it with grace unheard of from even leopards, long considered the most agile feline predator of all.

"Before you go, you would do well to dwell upon this saying…

**没有什么是真的。一切都是允****许的**."

The red lenses glowed darkly in the bright for a moment before disappearing into the darkness of light, but not before uttering some choice final words-

"_**Nusquam est verus. Panton est licitus."**_

_The Day After_

**Nelson and Murdock's, 11th and 41st, New York**

Fogwell peered at the man seated on the chair in front of his desk, his hazel eyes exhibiting a mixture of curiosity and slight intimidation as he did so. One good thing that did come out of the whole mutant mess that was going on at the moment was that he had been able to acquire decent premises due to the resulting land scare. The verdict among many people- at least according to the Daily Bugle- was that the United States could very well be invaded outright by the Chinese army sooner rather than later, and if that was not the case bugging their nubile psyches, maybe it was that earlier incident with those strange creatures popping out of the sewers of all places, or that supposed sighting of madmen dressed in medieval gear going bonkers- the semantics did not matter, because out of all the ensuing ruckus he _did _get hold of this delectable property in almost half the price and had it furnished in the following day.

"So…are you a **cat** person or a **dog** person?", the man inquired, breaking Foggy out of his momentary stupor immediately.

He did not make anything of a man clad in a velvet blazer and matching pants traipsing into his barely opened office before- but then again he _was _rather off-world the whole time with his mind still very much gloating about his new venture.

"What does my owning _**pets **_have anything to do with…well, _anything_?" Foggy retorted back with incredulity once he had understood what he had been asked about by the individual seated before him.

Just to be sure, he took a passive glance once again at the tall figure; not half-bad looking- kind of a rugged endearing quality to his obviously tanned face, and marred by the short-cropped, almost army style blonde hair covering his scalp, the man looked professional, if nothing else.

Yet, the behaviour just exhibited by this man was _anything_ but.

"Hmm, I will take it that you don't own neither, right?", he said again, almost jeering at the mildly annoyed lawyer seated against.

"…So what clients are you supposed to represent, again?"

"Well,", the man was shaking his felt- tip pen with his left hand, much to the chagrin of Nelson, "you and your partner- both of you are criminal counselors, right?...Nope, my firm doesn't require your kind of legal aid, just yet."

He noticed the growing unease on Foggy's face as his deep blue eyes continued to peer against the latter's rotund features- so he flashed a charming smile and brought out a small card from his chest pocket and offered it towards the confused counselor.

"Relax, Mr. Nelson. I am here on behalf of this survey organisation- Manhattan Surveys- it's a fairly recent establishment, and so far we are looking to…_expand _our horizons. Internet operations like ours are a dime a dozen these days, you know."

Foggy took the business card from the proffered palm, albeit with a touch of uncertainty at first; but his momentary tensions were alleviated when he saw the authentic credentials (or at least they seemed so) on it.

He couldn't help but raise his eyebrows, however, when he saw the name 'William Clinton' in big black letters on the card.

"Yeah, everyone has a case of the funny eyes when they see the name.", Clinton offered, shaking his head slightly as he did so, "No relation to the big guy, obviously."

"Uh huh.", Foggy cleared as he slid the card into his coat pocket, "So…Mr. Clinton, exactly what transpired you to take the initiative to take a survey from a pair of new lawyers who just moved into the neighborhood? The streets aren't exactly filled these last couple of days after the Red scare with the mutants, if you know what I mean."  
Clinton gave a short laugh as he tilted his head against the chair, obviously more relaxed with Foggy now that any prior misunderstandings had been cleared.

"Well, someone's got to…as you said, take the initiative, you know, Mr. Nelson. I am not the kind of person who is keen of wasting precious moments of his life just because some superpowered mob decided to turn the city into their playground overnight. You know, I don't say this with everyone, but…Foggy, you see- can I call you Foggy?"

Well that was a big jump, from Mr. Nelson to Foggy- but Fogwell didn't think much of it at that time, and simply nodded while Clinton continued on.

"So Foggy, you see I am not the kind of person who sits by and let's an opportunity go to waste. Just because I majored in psychology, and then decided that I exactly didn't want to become a shrink a few years later- that didn't mean I was going to let that education go to waste now was I? So, here I am, four years later, running a decent survey organisation with a few of my mates back from Melbourne. Is the pay that good? No. Do I enjoy doing it? Yes. So, basically…that would be why I am sitting here before you- and I hope I am not looking like an idiot- at 9: 30 in the morning."

"_Well, the guy has a lot of conviction for his work, got to hand him that much."_

"You know what, Bill- can I call you Bill?- you seem like a really driven guy from what you told me. So, what I am going to do…"

Foggy flashed a genuine smile as he leaned back against his plush leather chair, picking up the mug of coffee that had been steaming over his desk for quite a few minutes, thrusting the mug friendlily towards Clinton as he did so.

"What I am going to do, is let you take that survey you worked me so much up about. Hell, this is probably the most excitement I had this morning, too."

_"Unless I count that pile of pigeon droppings narrowly missing my hair and landing on my front porch, that is."_

Bill laughed softly as he shook his head slightly, finally putting down the pen he had been shaking so vigorously on the maple wood of the desk.

"No need, Mr. Nelson- I kind of finished that survey about…hmm, two minutes ago."

It was Foggy's turn to be surprised once again- he was sure that Clinton didn't ask any other questions than that initial 'cats or dogs' one the entire time he had been in the office.

"But…you didn't exactly write anything done about the survey the whole time, and-"

"Oh," Clinton butted in with his right finger raised, a smug look bracing his features at this moment, "but I have an _**excellent **_memory, Mr. Nelson. And I am a very good conversationalist, I have been told. I obtained everything pertaining to the survey from the entirety of the..., Clinton glanced at his wrist watch, "fifteen minutes and 43 seconds we have been talking with each other, actually."

Foggy's interest had now been fully captivated- he leaned towards the edge of his seat as he eyed the man with the utmost curiosity.

"And what did you learn about me in those…fifteen minutes and 43 seconds as you put it?"

"Well…are you sure you want to hear about it?"

"By all means- take your best shot."

Clinton drew a sharp breath for a moment, as though he was preparing for a grand diatribe he was going to launch into at any given moment.

"Okay…I am going to put this in as much Layman's terms as I can. To start it off, you are a bit of an oddity when it comes to the nature/ nurture scale. My educated guess would be, early on from childhood you had…what, overprotective parents? Started to resent it more as you grew up, coveting the kind of freedom you see the jocks and the like practice in the heydays of your varsity years- so, chances are you rebelled against the status quo of your family life from the moment you became a bona fide adult. But…you are not exactly satisfied with going solo as of late, are you? You don't like to be surrounded by a gaggle of your contemporaries in your free time, but you don't exactly enjoy the fact that you are all alone, either. Still undecided on whether you want nature or nurture, I would say."  
Foggy was nothing short of astounded by how much this hit closer to home than he would have thought; but he wasn't going to let all that show on the surface just yet.

"You have a strong sense of justice- I can see that. And by the fact that you appreciated my apparent devotion to my job, that pretty much indicates you are quite dedicated to yours too. You are probably a bit laid back when it comes to most matters, but very serious when it comes to prosecuting cases. Very down to earth, in that case."

Foggy could only nod while a very noticeable grin appeared on Clinton's face.

"_Man, maybe this is all just an elaborate prank. Like that old MTV show with Ashton Kutcher way back when."_

"Yeah, there's a reason why I was valedictorian of my class alright, Mr. Nelson. My guesses always tend to pretty **right**, see?"

"_Maybe this is…you know, a serial killer going on about his usual business._

_Hey, pretty weird things happen in this city day to day- so, you can't be really surprised if a killer psycho is trying to psych you out right in your office, for God's sake."_

Presently, the metal handle of the front door slid around as Matt Murdock stepped inside the office moments later, his metal cane tapping loudly on the wooden floor before ceasing immediately when he realized that there was someone else inside the room besides Foggy.

"Foggy,", his deep voice sounded pleasant despite the underlying alertness hidden in it's tone, "You should have told me that we were to have a client on the first day."

Before Foggy could offer any plausible explanation, Clinton rose from his seat and turned towards Matt, an mildly amused expression exhibited in his deep blue eyes as he observed the stoic figure for a moment.

"Counselor Murdock, I presume?", he offered his hand, which Matt took, albeit with slight caution.

Both men tried to glean something off the other as they shook their hands, though Clinton's eyes lit up considerably more when they broke off.

"Don't worry, counselor- I was just having a chat with your partner here. I was just on my way out of here- but I have to say, the city will be in good hands if there are more good men like Mr. Fogwell out there."

"I have said the same to him during many occasions,", Matt replied in a more casual tone as Clinton briskly gathered his pad and pen and placed them inside his briefcase, "So, why don't you stay around a few minutes longer for a cup of coffee, Mr…?"  
"Clinton, William. But I really need to get going, Mr. Murdock. Perhaps we can chat later…?"  
Matt gave a polite nod as Clinton reached for the door, the edges of the blazer whirling around momentarily as the latter moved with unexpected haste to get through the open door.

Though he did turn for one last time and smile widely towards Murdock, while Foggy stared blankly. totally at a loss of words by then.

"By the way, Mr. Murdock…Cool shades. **Red **really suits you."

And with that, he curtly closed the door shut and left an intrigued Matt Murdock and a highly flustered Foggy Nelson in his wake.

"_That smell…there is something off about it. I just can't place it…but it seemed to come from his…__**conditioner**__…?"_

Foggy gasped loudly as Matt turned to face his friend, a very questioning look gracing his handsome features as he bent towards the desk.

"Matt, I have the feeling that you just saved my a** bigtime there, buddy. I don't why, but that guy was starting to give me the creepy crawlies just before you walked in…"

Matt's lips curled into a friendly smile as he shook his head, fondly reminiscing about many such instances where he had, to quote, 'saved Foggy's a** bigtime'.

Though admittedly, there were several of those instances when he landed himself into trouble while trying to save Foggy's bacon in the first place…

_18th April, 2007_

**Columbia University, New York**

"Goddammit, Matt!", Foggy all but yelled as he dragged his friend out of the shower stalls, both still clad in sweaty gym clothes, with the letters "C.S.U." stamped boldly over the chests. Foggy in particular, however, struck out most visually as his belly threatened to burst through the tight fabric hugging his rotund features.

"Would you stop _dragging _me away from the showers, Foggy?", Matt protested in a slightly sarcastic tone as he whipped his hand away from his pudgy friend, "My armpits are positively _**stinking **_if you haven't noticed."

"What- Matt, in case the event escaped your notice…you just beat Scott Landers to a **pulp** in there! You beat Columbia's star quarterback in front of his whole goddamned team of testosterone-riddled jocks! We can't go back there!"

"'Beat him to a pulp' is a strong choice of words, Foggy.", Matt retorted in a decidedly casual manner as they both broke into a stride and headed away from the showers for the time being.

"_**Strong **_choice of words? You broke his damn **nose**, Matt!"

"Well, it's not my fault if his nose is exceptionally fragile. Guess he shouldn't have bothered to haze you with me standing right beside you, eh?"

Foggy bit his lip in frustration as he shook his head disapprovingly, all the while Matt paid no notice to it whatsoever.

"Yeah, well you probably wouldn't have made so much of a point to humiliate him if he didn't say that Jack was a fake, too."

" Just as good that I disproved that little notion then, I would say. I didn't learn four different martial arts discipline from the old man so that I would listen to crap like that…"

The sudden tension edging between the two friends is instantly evaporated when one certain raven haired exotic beauty strutted out of the girl's shower room a few feet ahead, dressed in freshly worn red halter-top and designer jeans accentuating her highly athletic figure. Her onyx eyes sparkled appreciatively when she took notice of the handsome man smiling sheepishly towards her, with even his far more chubby friend taken away with the raw beauty exuded by her form.

"Matthew. Fogwell,", she teased in a sultry voice as she neared the two, "Why are you two still dressed in your gym clothes…?"

"Oh that's a long story, **Elektra**.", Foggy cut in before Matt could say anything to the contrary, "but the gist of it is- Matt just broke Scott Landers' nose. **And** we ran out of the showers."

"Actually, you ran out of the showers. You _**dragged **_me along with you, you know."  
Foggy slammed his palm against his face, while his eyes drifted skywards as to signify his being on the verge of resignation.

"…Elektra, can you just explain to this bonehead why it might not be a good idea to break someone's nose?"

Elektra gave sighed softly before unexpectedly moving in towards Matt and planted a succulent kiss on his lips for the entirety of ten seconds, before Matt returned her affections with vigor as well, all apparent thoughts evaporated from both of their minds.

"Yeah…", Elektra cooed softly between kisses, "Well I had to…**reward **Matt for doing such a favor to humanity in general."

"Oh, Elektra…", Matt said mischievously as he gently pushed through the open door of the girl's showers, and Elektra didn't object at all to the fact that they would be seen by the dozens of girls still showering within, "who needs excuses for a good makeout session anyway?"

A gaggle of high- pitched screams, followed by fits of uncontrollable giggling echoed throughout the hallway while Foggy stood flabbergasted, alone outside the door.

"_…Figures. Mental note, Foggy- next time, don't ask Elektra Natchios to be the voice of reason in an argument against Matt Murdock. The two invariably end up licking their faces off when t__**hat**__ happens."_

_Present Day…_

_8 hours later_

**Nelson and Murdock's, 11th and 41st, New York**

"Okay, this is it. I give up.", Nelson declared with an air of finality as he slammed his temple against the desk surface. "I am done interviewing secretary candidates for the evening."  
Matt patted his long time friend on appreciatively on the back while he took a sip of coffee from his mug, instantly noticing that there was there was a far too disproportionate mixture of chocolate in the brew- for a man of his enhanced senses, the taste was terribly strong.

" Hey, come on. Get up, will you? It's just the first day, after all.", Matt stated matter of factly while he tried not to spill the coffee outright on Foggy's yellow shirt.

"Oh yeah? Well I went two years without any kind of weird things happening to me. And what happens to me on the **first** day of our ambitious enterprise? I become the target of _**projectile vomiting**_."

Foggy gestured towards the still horribly smelling coat which he had take off after the toddler of one interviewee once child used his prized apparel as a vomit bag.

"What happened to the good old days, Matt? Used to be, worst trait you could have was to be a _chain smoker. _Nowadays, I shudder to think of the endless possibilities…"

Presently, a polite knock was heard over from beyond the front door, with a throat being cleared before a sigh from what was obviously a female voice.

Foggy almost groaned as he realised there was yet another interviewee at the door.

"…Can I come in, please?", a dulcet contralto spoke to the two from beyond the door.

"Not really, no- we are actually done taking interviews for the day.", Foggy tried to sound as much pleasant and professional as possible, though he wasn't achieving much success in that endeavour,"Why don't you come again tomorrow, dear?"

"But…I _really _need this job, sir. I was told that the firm Murdock and Nelson was looking to hire a secretary, and-"

"That's **Nelson **and Murdock to you, madam. But hey, if you would just leave your resume by the door, we could have someone look into it later on. We are _**terribly **_shortstaffed at the moment."

The woman sighed once again, while Matt seemed to spellbound for some reason by the presence of the girl.

Little did Foggy know, the feminine scent of her body, not to mention the pheromones exuded, were already making their way down Matt's extra sharp nostrils, and he was finding it hard not to be strangely mesmerised by the scent alone.

"…It's one of those long days, isn't it?", she offered once again, hoping to break through to Foggy from beyond.

"They are **all** long days. That's the nature of the job."

"I know.", she offered in a sympathetic tone.

Foggy finally raised his head from the desk, as though he had just experienced a minor epiphany of sorts.

"You…do?"

"Listen, mister…can I please come in?"

"I…yeah, why not.", Foggy spoke at length, still unsure as to why he was agreeing to the matter at all.

The door handle spun slowly, and as the door swung around, Foggy gasped audibly as she stepped through it, a sheepish grin gracing her sweet, pure features. She was dressed modestly, clad in a black business suit with matching knee length skirt- but she managed to look breathtaking even in that restricting outfit. Her aqua eyes were innocent, and showed hints of childish wonder and naiveté as she eyed the two men seated in front of her. Her long, wavy blond curls fell to her shoulders, marring her face in an almost angelic fashion as her lips parted once again.

"Gentlemen, my name is Karen Page. I hope I didn't catch you at a terribly bad time…"

"_I know that I am blind at the moment…_

_But I do not need my eyesight to tell me that I am staring right at the most beautiful woman in the world."_


	5. Issue Four: Anathema Part III

___"In love all the contradiction of existence merge themselves and are lost. Only in love are unity and **duality** not at variance. Love must be one and two at the same time. Only love is motion and rest in one. Our heart ever changes its place till it fin"_

**The Ludus**

The wooden door swung open, a tall, burly middle aged man standing at the doorstep as he surveyed the completely dark and vast room he knew to be the library for a moment. Steady hazel eyes peered out of thick horn-rimmed glasses, his left hang in his overcoat pocket and the right one holding a large grocery bag against his massive chest.

His name was Melvin Porter- and in official terms, the 32-year old had been a proud employee of a respectable accounting firm for the last thirteen years. The papers were all there- and everyday he would bid his dear old mother adieu 6:00 in the morning and return home 15 hours later, and he would almost invariably be burnt out from his 'work.'

His once usually friendly and pleasing demeanor had quietly changed over the years, to a brooding and solitary individual; matriarch Evelyn Porter would gossip about such to her friends in the neighborhood, but that was quite understandable, she reasoned. Earning a six figure yearly salary must certainly require an enormous amount of effort from her son…and well, you gain some, you lose some, is the philosophy she lived by these days. If being able to enjoy the benefits brought on only by the possession of a sizeable portion of wealth at _**her **_age meant that her son was alienated from the rest of the world- well that was a fairly acceptable loss by her standards.

Well, at least the library was empty, he mused as he walked towards his own little table on the other side of the vast hall. He liked the quiet- the solitude let him concentrate on the fascinating yet mundane task of continuing to shift through the records and revising the historical appearances of the Seven.

Fascinating in the sense that Melvin had always been a sort of a history geek- even back in those days where every other kid was talking about the new Mattel toy line or some other shiny new action figure, he was poring down into massive volumes of ancient history- Alexander, Quin Shi Huang, Caesar, all the way to Boudicca, Nero- he had learned of their thrilling lives and their tales of conquest almost by rote.

Now, however, he knew that at least three out of the five figures he had just mentioned had been assassinated in some method or the other by one of the Seven. The actual details were sketchy, but according to what was compiled by previous Seven historians over the centuries and his own extensive research on the matter from what he had gathered from the lucid dreams that ail all incarnations of the Seven throughout their lifetimes- he was perfectly sure that at least one of them had been dispensed by earlier Weapons of Fate with impunity.

The idea that a group- a _cabal _of shadowy individuals running around and assassinating key historical figures, through the earliest reaches of time even- this was the stuff that conspiracy theorists spent their lives raving about and trying to convince the general populace that it wasn't just the product of their rabid imagination they were spewing forth.

And when he discovered that this was all real- well, and that a lot more shadowy things had happened, and was _still _happening in modern times, that were quietly swept under the rug…he was understandably shaken by the discovery.

"_Don't worry, lad_", he remembered Stone reassuring him in his wise, yet merry tone when he approached him about this dilemma years ago, "_It will all make sense after the initial hiccup. There is much more to learn about us and our place in history after all…!"_

He missed those early years, truth be told. When he was full of enthusiasm, and there was still that sliver of youth he could cling to. Stick had even thought of the moniker of "Gladiator" for him- as the leader it has his duty to choose callsigns for his disciples, and he told the man that he reminded him most of _**Spartacus**_**- **the man who ended Marcus Linius Crassus before going down in a blaze of glory facing several thousands strong Roman infantry.

Pity though- he seldom had the chance to do any 'Gladiatorial' work in all years of service to the cause.

He didn't mind it though- not anymore at least. He probably wasn't a man of the required disposition to do such bloody work and stay mentally unscathed, and what had happened when he failed to graduate as a full- blown Weapon of Fate- perhaps that was all for good as well.

Anyways, he shouldn't really worry his head over such trivial matters now he decided.

Those were all old wounds, and he had gotten over those a long time ago.

At least that was what he told himself as he lit the old candle with the matchstick, and brought out his chair, ready to begin a new day's work with all the enthusiasm of a dilapidated goldfish in a fish bowl.

However, he had not gotten through setting down a particularly lengthy volume and find the mark from where he was to resume his research from- when he heard the slightest hint of noise emanating from behind where he sat.

His first guess would have been rats- but then again he knew Stone well enough to say with surety that the library- and the Ludus in it's entirety- was squeaky clean and completely free of any rodent infestation. Not only was he Doctore to the acolytes- Stone was the caretaker of the grounds as well. And a damned good one at that.

Perhaps, he was not so alone after all..?

He had barely begun to rise from his chair, however, when he felt the touch of cold metal on the back of his neck. It sent an involuntary shiver down his spine- but he remained calm- at least outwardly that is.

"…Aren't you even going to ask me who I am?", an aggressive voice sounded from close quarters, with Melvin literally being able to smell the lingering smell of beef jerky as he stayed completely still in his position.

"Well,", Melvin began in a monotonous, controlled tone as he removed his glasses from atop his nose, apparently unfazed by this situation he had found himself in, "the only one with whom I have less than amicable relations with would probably be the Cheshire cat who once came dangerously close to ripping my favourite coat to pieces- but I doubt that the furry fiend has somehow become humanoid and is holding a custom palladium-titanium bolt to my neck at this moment."

" Hmm- that's a start, isn't it? I am in a good mood today, though- so I am going to give you **three **guesses as to-"

"**Clint**.", Melvin uttered suddenly, a small, bronze dagger grasped in his hand and pointed at the intruder's gut, "You are ruining my mood for work with your penchant for the dramatic."

Melvin heard a sharp intake of breath, and then an irritated frown as the bolt was quickly removed from near his neck. He turned his chair around to see a familiar figure- a tall, athletic male in his mid-30s, dressed in a sleek, sleeveless dark violet body suit ensemble along with black combat boots and gloves. A pair of goggles hung around his neck, as his right hand ran through his short cropped light blonde hair, the sharp blue eyes glaring at Melvin as though he had just been slighted by the large man a moment before.

"Well…even my main man in the order can't appreciate a good dose of humor can he?", Clinton Barton sighed as he laid his arrow-filled quiver by a leg of the table, "But- hey, was I _that _obvious two seconds ago?"

"Better lay off beef for a while- that would be my advice.", the man rose to his feet, his figure easily towering over Barton's physique as he laid a polite hand on his friend's shoulder as a sign of respect, a slight smile on his face as he spoke again, "So I take it that you are here because of the Rites?"

" Hmm- well, my Facebook has been crawling with lovely ladies trying to get a piece of my _beefcake _as you would say, so if you had any status updates anywhere in the space of the last three years- I don't think I know what the hell you are talking about, actually."  
Melvin seemed somewhat unimpressed as he patted Clint in the back and withdrew his chair once again, fully intent on resuming his research work once again.

"Uggh! Ok, ok- yeah I am here because of the Rites. You know, just because you are Gladiator and I am Blackhawk doesn't mean we have to act like stoners jacked up on anti- depressants while trying to make small talk. I mean, so what that I spent the last twenty years or so scouring through the Australasian underworld and such-"

"Stick had you do gigs in Asia as well?" the one who was to be Gladiator inquired, mildly interested as he dipped the fountain pen in the bottle of ink, " **Viper **has a reputation for being fiercely territorial, last I heard."

"Yeah, had a run- in with her once, in '01 I think. A bit _short _and too aggravated for my taste, but maybe she is like…you know, tea? Acquired taste and all that?"  
"She would poison _your_ tea tomorrow with horse laxative if you keep going on like that within her hearing distance, Clint."

"Well, with you having gone the way of Keanu Reeves and Stick getting up there in his years, that may very well be the only thing not keeping me from falling asleep while you indoctrinate the blind lawyer into the herd. Seriously, I have seen that thing like, _four _different times-"

"Wait.", Melvin looked genuinely surprised as he wheeled his neck around abruptly, "How did you know that he is…"

"Oh, well in the old- fashioned way, you know. Going up to the bloke and meeting him- face to face. What? A man is allowed to do what he wants in his own private time isn't he? It's not like I was clocking in work hours when I was-"

"Stick is going to have your **head** if he ever hears of this, Clint.", Melvin spoke grimly, while Clint rolled his eyes and wandered off, picking up his metal bow and taking one bolt from his quiver.

"You know, that old guy wasn't exactly secretive of his early efforts to recruit him a few years back."

"And, you know this because…?", Melvin pondered, his interest fully captivated as Clint pulled on his bowstring, aiming for a large spider hanging in mid-air on delicate strands of web.

"I have my sources. Insanely good looks and perfect accuracy with weapons can only take an assassin so far.", Clint replied in a somewhat strained manner, and for a moment it seemed to Melvin as though just making the effort to concentrate his focus was becoming cause for increasing pain for the man.

The moment passed as soon as it had came though, and once again he made the move to return to his research notes.

"Heh. You know, I have this feeling in my gut that the kid didn't _always _use to be blind, see?"

"Hmm.", Melvin muttered nonchalantly, "and I have this certain impulse in my brain telling that you are making anything _but _an educated guess."  
"Hah. You know me, right?"

Clint finally let the arrow loose from his grasp, and within moments dark liquid squirted from the dead spider as the metal tip skewered it's arachnid body.

"I have a way with guesses, Mel. They always tend to end up being _**right, **_see?"

* * *

_23rd May, 2007_

**The Brownstone**

Jonathan Murdock stared dumbfoundedly at the man standing on his doorway- a lean, but nonetheless aged man dressed in a gray loose-fitting shirt and matching trousers. The fact that he had decidedly Asian features and had a beard that hung down to his neck almost downright convinced him that this must have been some poor immigrant from Red China who had stumbled onto his doorstep by some mistake.

"I...I think you made a mistake," he began, speaking gently and kindly, "Good sir, if you could tell the address you are looking for, maybe I-"

"This is where **Matt Murdock **lives, is it not?", the old man spoke- no, practically wheezed as his narrow eyes beamed at the surprised mixed martial athlete.

"Yes, it is.", he spoke more cautiously now, "What is your business with…"  
"The man barged into the house, pushing a thoroughly astonished Jack with not surprising strength, but agility and grace, almost as though he had slid through the space between Jack and the open door.

"Whoah, whoah. Sir, you are seriously _**overstepping **_your bounds here-"

"Hmm. This is a meager place for the upbringing of one destined for such great things.", the old man commented more to himself than anything else as an alarmed Jonathan halted to a stop in front of him.

"Listen, if you know Matt, then just say what you are here for and be done with it. I just don't have time for-"  
"You are in _serious _lack of money, I see."

The route this was going, Jack was afraid he might pop a vein or two in his forehead before it was all over.

"I am trying to be as calm as possible with you, you old f**. If you don't leave this instant,-"

"You have money problem in your job, Jonathan? That _is _your name is it not? Or do you prefer "Steel Paw" Jack, your moniker in…"

"Who _**are **_you?", Jack asked more out of dread than anything else, inwardly preparing his mind to defend his life and his son's as well if push came to shove.

"My name is not of import to you or your son. Just know this…"

He brought out a small stick from his pocket, and shook it four times- and the stick expanded as several smaller sticks rolled out from it's hollow interior- all joining together to form a sleek yet simple looking wooden cane.

"There seems to be signs of great change looming in the horizon- both for you and your son. It is certain that you may require my aid."

Jonathan stared blankly- his mind told him he was dealing with a very psychotic mad man who had fancied himself a shaman to the future of sorts- but for some reason he stopped just sort of lunging at the old man before he did anything drastic.

It's like he could feel a sort of…_aura _radiating from within this frail figure.

"Here…take this.", the man thrust a small card into Jack's palm, "This will allow you inform me in case of any mortal emergencies."

Jack nervously peered into the card, seeing only a carved picture of what seemed to be a bamboo cane and nothing else- no name, no address, nothing whatsoever. He flipped the card to see the exact same cane engraved on the other side as well.

"Hey! There's _nothing _on this piece of-"

Jack stopped mid-sentence when he saw that he was the only inhabitant of the room at that moment. Looking around in an almost frantic manner, he saw that the detachable wooden cane that the old man had brought out now laid discarded on the floor.

As he bent down to pick up the cane, his cautious eyes now eyeing the object with curiosity as he pocketed the strange card in his hand- he wondered if he should just write off the entire matter as a figment of his overactive imagination, aided by consumption of one too many scotches than he should have at this late hour.

Still- the cane felt real enough in his hand as he slowly wiped the sweat off his brow and reached for the cordless phone hanging on the wall, intent on reporting the incident to the police at least.

But then, what would he tell them? The old man hadn't really broken any laws now that he thought about it.

"…I _really _need to get a couple of drinks to wash this down."

* * *

_Present Day_

**Chiff's Bowling Emporium**

"HAH! And the Fogmeister strikes again!", Foggy Nelson yelled in triumph- perhaps a bit too loudly as all ten pins went down in one strike.

The intrepid lawyer would have even gone so far as a victory dance, if he did not notice one certain auburn haired lawyer and the breathtakingly beautiful blonde sitting by his side staring at him with incredulity, while the rest of the people on the other bowling lanes gave him a wide berth as they went on with their games.

"Mr. Nelson seems to be in quite the mood today, don't you think, Mr. Murdock?", Karen inquired wistfully, one slender finger curling a few stray strands of her golden locks as they both watched a slightly embarrassed Foggy return to his lane.

"Well,", Matt began in his baritone, "I think he just wants to celebrate the fact that we landed our first case today…I can't really fault him if he's overtly- enthusiastic about that, I suppose."

Karen nodded thoughtfully, her lush lips locked around the straw as she continued to drink the soda ever so slightly.

Matt knew that, although the case was partly the reason for which Foggy had dragged them out of their meager office in Hell's Kitchen and into this aging bowling alley in Queens- the real reason was something else entirely. And she was sitting right in front of him- her mere presence having a mystifying effect on both the lawyers as they tried to- or at least pretended to, go on about their usual matters.

Foggy had never fallen for any girl in the five years he had known him- but then again he wasn't really as much forward as Matt was in their salad days.

"_I can hear his heartbeat jumping sporadically every time he would as much as steal a glance at her. And can I really fault him for that? _

_Even __**I **__can tell that she is probably the best thing that could happen to him or even me in a long time."_

"So…what was the name of the client again, Karen?", Matt asked casually as he passed his fingers through the Braille newspaper- which seemed to be filled with outrages and what-not about one Victor Von Doom, who had but taken over as president of the vulnerable Latveria mere days prior, had declared the country as a fascist state mere days prior.

He could have read the Mussolini quote he was currently skimming through with a regular newspaper well enough- but then again that was going to arouse more suspicion than he would have liked.

"Ohh, it was really awkward and peculiar…something to do with a bird or…oh yes, I remember now.", Karen exclaimed, her chin settling on her folded hands as she did so, "It's Leyland Owlsley."

"Hmm…I remember seeing that name around somewhere…"

"Well, I guess you could have seen it on the papers Mr. Nelson faxed to your home or…"

"I wasn't at home for…well the last couple of hours, I guess.", Matt confessed, finally folding the paper he had been reading for the last few minutes and focusing all his attention on the vibrant woman seated in front.

To tell the truth, he found it very distracting to go through the news when his each and every sense was utterly captivated by her presence alone.

"Hhmmm. And where were you Mr. Murdock?"

"Call me Matt. Mr. Murdock, sound so…well, Mr. Murdock."

Karen gave a soft giggle as he removed the few stray bonds falling down to her eyes.

How they would look, he wondered. Would they be large and expressive- or small and thoughtful- or round and innocent- his head was starting to throb from going through all the possibilities.

"Well, I was _around_, I guess. Taking a stroll through the city, enjoying the fresh air…"

He had spent the last three hours- or probably many more, running around in his costume like some half-crazed maniac- going from rooftop to rooftop, jumping off flagpoles- all that stuff. It wasn't something that someone adhering to a strict code of stealth should have done- but he felt strangely invigorated somehow- like he was a CSU undergraduate once again, going through the city with no fears and worries like it was his own backyard.

It was all crazy, and he could tell what had made him so reckless to do that in the first place.

"HEY!", Foggy yelled from his lane to the two," It's not that fun to bowl just by myself when you two are being dreadful bores and doing nothing you know!"

Matt nodded with moderate enthusiasm as he rose from the table, extending his hand out to Karen as Foggy looked at them- well, probably more at _her_, expectantly.

"Well, Karen- Foggy's getting positively restless, I believe. Let's give him some company shall we?"

Karen rose from her seat- albeit with a shade of uncertainty as she eyed the bowling balls lined up by the lane with apprehension.

"I…well, Mr. Murdock, I have never tried my hand at this game before."

"Hah. Well I maybe blind- but I can still throw a ball straight for the pins. Would you turn around?"

Karen, though hesitant at first, did as asked- and Matt surprised not only her, but himself by reaching out to her waist and grasping her slender arm in a gentle grip.

"Let me show you how to make a basic throw, okay? Just raise it like this…"

He pulled her arm ever so gently upwards, making sure that the angle and point of inclination was correct, and then he shaped his fingers as though they were dug into the holes of a bowling ball.

The feeling was exhilarating- it was like her heart was beating right inside his own. He could feel her initial discomfort, but she soon eased and followed his instructions as he continued to instruct her in the ways.

All the while, Foggy stared at the two in a somewhat cold manner- his hazel eyes narrowed at the glimmer of pleasant mischief in Karen's eyes as Matt finally removed himself and started to make his way towards the lanes- a much more eager and vibrant Karen not far behind as he took position by one empty lane.

"Mr. Murdock?", Karen asked tentatively as she grasped one of the bowling balls, glancing at an apparently focused Matt as he prepared to make his first throw.

"Call me Matt, would you?", he replied playfully, letting his ball loose- and groaning when he heard it strike only 7 out of the ten pins.

"Okay, then. **Matt, **you are an awfully sweet person. You know that?"

He smiled sheepishly as she threw her own ball- and to both of their eternal surprise, she managed to score a perfect ten.

She screamed in delight, and without any forethought whatsoever, jumped straight into Matt's unsuspecting arms, her own arms wrapping around his neck as Foggy looked away and became unusually concentrated on writing his scores down for the evening.

"_Her heart skipped a few beats the entirety of the ten seconds her body was pressed against mine._

_What she didn't know was- my heart skipped more than a few beats as well._

_I don't know why- but I think I am starting to fall for this girl too. I am not too…__**sure **__where that leaves Foggy and me on that matter."_

_

* * *

_

_6 hours later…._

**The Ludus**

"Hmm. The kid likes to keep us waiting, doesn't he?", a grim young man asked his sensei, Stick. He was clad from head to toe in bottle-green leather suit topped with a yellow edges at the collar and a small sash hanging from his well-toned torso, his head covered in a dark yellow leather mask with white optical lenses where the eye slits should be- yet the most distinguished feature of this man's outlandish attire was the engraved white symbol of a dragon with it's wings spread out, sitting right there on his chest.

"Did I not make myself clear the first time, Daniel?", Stick answered, a tinge of annoyance in his wheeze as he stared proudly at the almost fully assembled Seven in front of him.

Stone stood by his side- silent and vigilant as always. His white drapery contrasted with the dark violet gear of Blackhawk, who, while still possessing that mischievous gleam in his sharp eyes, knew enough not to break ranks in this exchange at the very least. Gladiator- looking somewhat ill- fitting in his aging segmented armor, remained somewhat dark and brooding, but otherwise perfectly positioned for this occasion. Even Viper- who stood all by herself in a dark, secluded corner, her dark green locks falling to her waist as her petite, athletic body leaned against the wall- her delicate features always guarding that lethal stance within her soul, able to deceive and eliminate anyone through disarming charm and inventive methods that were bizarre by even the order's standards- even she seemed somewhat appropriate in her place.

Only Danny Rand- or Ironfist, refused to remain within his station as all others patiently awaited the arrival of their newest member so the Rites may be begun.

"Ten hours I spend in a damn plane, and now I am here getting cramps in a room with no air conditioning at all. Seriously, didn't my monthly injections from-"

"Pray still your tongue. None here needs to know of your personal dealings or lack thereof with the order. Do not forget-"

"The **Code.** Yes, yes. But really, this is starting to get _downright_ tedious. You know the other guys who have to put up with wearing ridiculous gear like others? Them Fantastic Four and those-"

"Yeah, he heard of them, wisea**. He's not as homebound as you would believe, really.', Blackhawk retorted off-handedly, his eyes directed towards his bow as he continued to polish it.

"Hmm. So where was I? Yeah- those guys get big _fat _paychecks for doing their job, and what about us? Like where is my reward for keeping hicks like the Pride and others from splitting up the West Coast like they are cutting off slices of anchovy pizza?"

"I can't imagine how someone born with a silver spoon in his mouth is asking his cut while us poor fools go for free.", Blackhawk jumped in once again, while Melvin looked at him alarmingly.

Melvin directed a swift elbow towards Clint's gut, praying that Stick or Ironfist for that matter would let that comment slide and not follow up on what his friend may actually be implying with it.

"Hey, I am a major proponent of income equality where I come from. But wait- how come you go making that assumption that-"

"You are a rich snob who tries so hard to be Bruce Wayne day in day out but fails miserably? Eh, Lucky guess."

Stick shook his head disappointingly as he picked up his staff from it's sheath on the table.

"Well, at least we do not have to listen to incessant bickering amongst ourselves any longer.", Stick spoke at length, everyone straightening up at once as he strode towards the center of the altar, "He is _**here, **_it seems."

And soon enough, one dark figure with striking horns protruding out of his cowl landed safely on the wooden floor, his voice grim as he spoke, rife with anticipation but finality as well.

"I am ready, Sensei. To be a true **Weapon of Fate. **As ready as I ever will be."

Stick smiled proudly at his obedient disciple, putting one frail hand on his shoulder as he led the boy to the altar.

"Then all is as it should be, lad. Let us **begin**."


	6. Issue Five: Anathema Part IV

_"Hypocrisy is not devotion - speaking words of **duality** leads only to misery. Those humble beings who are filled with keen understanding and meditative contemplation - even though they intermingle with others, they remain distinct."_

_23__rd__ May 2007_

_*13 minutes after the events detailed in the flashback in Issue 4*_

Stick muttered rapid curses in Mandarin as he stepped off the sidewalk and onto the zebra crossing, his attention not at all given towards the few vehicles speeding fast through the late night road- but rather his narrowed eyes were diverted towards the tiny gold hand watch clasped tightly in his frail hands. Try as he might, his eyes failed to make out where exactly the hour hand was pointing at that moment- and this annoyed him to no end.

The old man's fingers ran through his willowy beard rapidly, his gait almost slowing down to a stroll on the concrete as the others around him looked incredulously at the sight of the septuagenarian dressed in short sleeved gray shirts and matching trousers being so single- mindedly focused on the tiny object in his hands for some half crazed reason or the other.

The Chinaman had half a mind of sticking a dagger through the last surgeon who had done eye surgery on him- for he clearly remembered the sweet- tongued merchant of health guaranteeing him that he would never have a single problem with his eyesight ever again. He remembered every minute detail vividly- the soothing scent of flowers seeping into the sanitized room from the garden outside- it was the summer of '84, a good season for that particular species too, he remembered. The volumes of scent pouring out of that potbelly dwarf, his little black eyes wide with fear for his life as he held the blade's edge against the skin of his neck. A certain thrill coursing through his own nerves as he took in the pleasant, pollution free air that could only be found in Zurich, Switzerland. Certainly one of the better days of his prime, he decided.

All of it brought a fuzzy feeling of nostalgia in his gut as he put away the watch into his pocket- a whiff of that adrenaline that was always coursing through his energized veins during his many travels through the world.

As he once set himself upon the relatively menial task of crossing the street once again- his eyes fell upon two figures on the opposite sidewalk- a young man and a woman, locked in tight embrace and their faces almost glued to each other as the lithe female's ravenous locks lay tangled upon her shoulders- a pleasing contrast to the man's own bright auburn, almost orange hair as his hands gripped firmly around her waist.

The old man smiled broadly- long had it been since he had seen the passion and exuberance of youth being displayed so tenderly yet ferociously as well anywhere near him. Far too long- and he could feel it in his bones, his sinews devoid of that brimming youth, as though it had been sucked dry by someone eager whore from a shady brothel; and left with nothing but old age and illness.

He had lived a good life, yes- not a good life in the usual sense…but he felt that he had done some good wherever he could, and though he was perhaps not a good man himself, for in his mind any man stained in blood lost a part of his humanity little by little as he spills more and more blood- but perhaps he had dehumanised himself so that others would have the chance to be good. Or that is how he felt. For one who had seen and done so, _**so **_many things, Stick saw the world in black and white. Good and evil.

Destined to lock horns- dictated so by fate. And so, balance is maintained.

But fate was a _cruel_ mistress. It would throw one into a whirlwind of trouble and despair, with hope of escape and salvation, perhaps bleak, but always visible to one willing to reach out and grasp for it. But then, just as it seems she is favoring you- she switches sides faster than a hurricane and leaves you in a mess of your making, reminding you just how fickle she really can be- and that she has no care for what one would term as good and another would label as evil.

A sweet, yet all too cruel patron in all times, indeed.

" Oy, ya geezer!", a throaty voice suddenly called out to him, "Git off the road!"

Stick turned his head to see a balding, middle aged man clad in NYPD blues sticking his head out of the driving seat of a Ford Victoria police cruiser parked by the road, his expression one of mild irritation and perhaps some concern as well.

Stick nodded pleasantly towards him and sought to hasten his pace, determined not to stick out a like a sore thumb amongst the select few around him in the late night.

He had spread his feet apart for one last stride, a grin starting to appear on his beard-laden features that, of course, he still had plenty of youth still left in his sturdy frame, when he felt a sudden tremble course through both of his hands.

He hadn't even held them up in front of his eyes, a certain morbidity slowly creeping in his gaze- when the sensation intensified a thousand-fold, the pain shooting straight from his limbs to his chest- and and he fell upon the concrete like a rag doll, unable to let out more than a petrified whimper, and his heart was writhing so wildly as his hands flailed about his chest, he felt that it well might burst through his ribcage.

Not like this, he thought with adamant determination as his eyes barely registered a speeding truck headed straight for where he lay, flailing wildly, while the alarmed policeman raced from his patrol car towards him. But it was undoubtedly to no avail, for he could hear the ground vibrate and the little pebble hither and thither jump up and down as the truck sped through the empty road.

Never mind that it was probably peaking at least 40 miles over the speed limit for this road- or that the stylized words, "Roxxon Pharmaceuticals" lay emblazoned brightly along it's sides. The headlights flashed on his prone body- and it took the driver a whole 0.9 second to slam the brakes as hard as he could after that, but any eighth grader with basic knowledge of Newtonian motion could tell you that the vehicle was going to collide with his body anyways.

Yet the driver veered the steering hard to the left- but all it did was edge the front end of the truck to the left, while inertia in motion meant that the back end refused to go off its course, the fragile boxes rattling wildly as the driver now fought to keep the vehicle on the road instead of it making summersaults in the air that one always sees in those Hollywood car explosions.

He could hear the soft scream of the young woman he had seen but moments earlier- but no sign of her companion he heard- not that it mattered in those precious little milliseconds he had left before the collision, though. Fate had deserted him in the most unceremonious manner, he mused- and through all the inexplicable pain, his body fighting to stay functioning despite all odds, he knew that he was but a pawn- to be discarded as pleased.

When he felt a sudden force push him sideways across the concrete in the very last moment though- a large gust of wind whipped through his face as the truck finally skidded to a stop, only then did the pain subside enough for him to open his eyes once again- and see the terrified driver step out of the truck, screaming hell about something- he could only make out the words 'precious cargo' and 'ruined' before the policeman had pulled him off the road and loaded him onto his car.

The stroke itself seemed to have subsided- a bona fide miracle if he had ever heard of one. Or perhaps the pain had been dwarfed completely by the sheer horror exploding into his consciousness by the sight which met his blood-shot eyes.

The raven- haired beauty had dropped to her knees by her lover- his tall, athletic figure heavily distorted, even fragments of bone sticking out of his left elbow, his blood, already flowing out of various wounds from shards of Perspex, starting to become intermeshed with the hysterical girls' tears as newly arrived paramedics fought to pry her hand off his shoulders and administer critical aid to him. His features, though, remained uncannily untouched- but his eyes were pearly white, for an acid green substance lay spilled over beside him.

But above all, it was the young man's face- so devoid of life, of that good-natured humor- of the kindness which had compelled him to risk his own life to save that of a complete stranger's- all of it seemed washed away.

"Nooo…! **MATT! **Please, just let me go to him…!"; and Elektra Natchios- for that was her name he would learn later on- finally broke down in tears as paramedics loaded him onto the stretcher and loaded him onto the back of the ambulance.

The face of Matthew Murdock seemed ashen pale- and Stick feared that Fate might just have played the cruelest joke of all on him that day.

* * *

_10: 48 PM _

**The Ludus**

Even Daniel Rand- or as he should think of himself amongst his peers, Iron Fist- had not failed to notice the solemn mood of his mentor as he led the way through the expansive grotto- now very dimly lit, and perhaps even more gloomy than it had been when he had to go through the Rites, he remarked inwardly.

Indeed, as they approached the gates that would led to the area which would hold the first of the trials- he noticed that the entire area seemed a lot more polished and refined than it had been five years ago.

"…Hmm,", he began, turning his head towards the diminutive yet all too deadly Viper with an apparently casual drawl, "Have you noticed that this whole place seems a lot more changed than…well, during my initiation?"

"I would not know.", she replied simply in a fluid tone which barely betrayed any hint of her heritage, her eyes not diverting from her path for one second, her expressions masked, literally so, by the copper-plated jade mouth-piece she wore then, "I profess, my mind seldom surrenders itself to taking note of such menial matters."

"…You could write an English lexicon with your vocabulary, do you know that?"

"Ahh, but Alas," she replied in a more subtle tone now, "My attention is otherwise diverted in my spare time to concocting new, undetectable mixtures of _**poisons**_. But this is an odd time for pursuing courtship, gallant avatar of the Fist."

Iron Fist gave an uneasy smile as Stick stopped by the large, bronze plated gates- seeming as though they had been lifted straight from some villa in the Golden Age of Greece.

"I, well...am _**otherwise **_engaged, if you see what I mean. I don't get to wear the ring under all this leather, but Colleen would _**kill **_me if I-"  
"Hey, mr. Smooth?", a sudden brisk voice spoke up, and Daniel had to immediately suppress a burgeoning frown, "Tone down on the loving husband bit, would ya? You are dangerously close to breaking the third rule of Fight Club."

"What the _**hell **_are you talking about?", Daniel hissed in a controlled voice, lest he disturb the attention of Stick and Stone as they went about unlocking the complex locking system of the giant doors, "I may not be a weird movie buff- but even I know that there is no such thing as a third rule in-"

"Well, there should be, you know?", Blackhawk interjected back once again, a wide grin plastered on his rugged features as the doors finally swung open, "Something like…._don't bawl about your wife and kids when in the company of __**killer badass assassins**_."

Before Iron Fist could retort, though, his eyes were immediately stung by the intensity of the light in the vast expanse of the room in front. Or rather- he was struck by its extreme lack thereof, for it seemed to be darker than the darkest of night as Stick beckoned the soon-to-be newest hand of Fate- the crimson clad, horned-devil who had taken the name Daredevil, to venture forth into the pitch black room.

"Here it is then, cub." the venerable sensei addressed his disciple in his usual wheeze, "The first trial of the Rites- that of _**Discovery. **_Somewhere within this room, the key that would unlock the doors to the next path in your journey remains, eager to be found by one who would seek to discover his ties to the ever weaving, ever changing entity that is Fate."

"….Is this key to be found in the centre of this room, Sensei?", the demon asked in his grim, deep baritone- the devotion and loyalty indicated in his tone instilling a degree of admiration even within the ever skeptical Rand, who stood still amongst the other five disciples of the sensei- not a single ounce of emotion to be found in their facial expressions now.

He hadn't even noticed until then, but the general mood had become serious to the point of morbidity the moment the huge doors had swung open to reveal the darkness within.

"Not centre in the usual sense, no.", Stick replied, shaking his head gently as his hands gripped upon his staff now as the demon slowly stood at the edge of the darkness, so to speak, "Your conscious mind and your instincts have to the one and the same- you have strike the balance in between. Honed reflexes are of no use if you cannot use them to look past the material plane and answer a higher calling. But you must keep your mind on your present surroundings as well, lest you be consumed by unexpected dangers lurking near."

"...I see. Ying and Yang."

Stick let out a laugh that was perhaps too loud for a man of his age- for he ended up coughing into fits a few seconds later before getting hold of himself once again.

"Hah! That may be true in the broadest of sense- but I don't think it applies well here. But, that is something you have to find out by _yourself_."

"…Indeed."

And with that, he stepped over the doorsill, the last sight of that being the crimson garment that hung from his waist twirling before it too disappeared within the blackness.

"…I don't get it.", Iron Fist spoke at length once he saw that both Doctore and Sensei had retired elsewhere, "Now, I _**know**_everyone else had been just blindfolded for this one- and I sure as hell remember the lights being on the last time…"

"Well,", Blackhawk cut in as he was ever wont to do, "blindfolding isn't going to do much for a guy who is already…"

A sharp nudge from Gladiator's elbow, though, meant that the outspoken assassin was prevented from saying anything more about the matter- and Iron Fist was thankful of that, truth be told.

But neither knew that the demon had heard each and every word of theirs with uncanny detail, even as he used his heightened senses in conjunction, providing him with an almost sonar like reading of his nearby surroundings. This room was something else, alright; there was no symmetry whatsoever to be found with it's arrangements. It was bordering on the surreal- like Picasso himself had been it's proud architect, daring any one wandering around to make head or tail of the design scheme.

But at least- the dark was at his side. It had always been, ever since he had dived in front of that truck three years ago.

And that quietness helped him immensely as well. It was the adverse, in fact, which had been the greatest hindrance to achieving focus, actually.

He had learned that shortly after he had regained consciousness after the accident. And not in the easy way, either.

* * *

_25th May, 2007_

It was a whole new world Matt had woken up to an hour earlier- and it was certainly not a pleasant one by any meaning of the word. He had suffered major fractures in every limb of his body- and that alone would have meant more time lost in his academic curriculum than he could afford to lose- but when Elektra whispered into his ears that he had lost his sight...he felt that his whole world had crashed around him.

"...Matt, say something." she choked out between sobs, "Anything...please, this is hard for me too...for all of us. Your _**father **_most of all..."

"…Where is he…?" he finally spoke at length, and it felt like he needed to make an enormous effort to speak past the enormous burden weighing down his heart, Dad…?"

"He is outside- talking with the man you saved. He had cardiac arrest just before you jumped in, and- ohhh. What will I ever do with my Man without Fear…? You were so **brave**."

"But what _**use **_is that..? I feel like I threw my life away with that one jump. Like, I put all I had going for me in one big duffel bag and chucked it as far as I could-"

"Matt, don't you _**dare **_talk like that.", Elektra admonished him in a half stern, half trembling voice, "We are all here for you. Foggy wanted to come too- but there was this business with his mother he had, and...just, you have to know that this isn't the end of the world."

She leaned her head- and although he couldn't _see _it, it was all dark around him now- he _felt _it somehow, as though he could sense the air swishing in the most minute manner as her face rested on his neck, warm tears dripping into his skin as her lips nuzzled against the bare patch of chest that remained free of bandages.

He didn't know if it was his lack of vision that was causing this- but his sensory perception was gaining startling clarity by the passing second, moreso it seemed when he paid particular attention to it. He could feel the ridge detail in Elektra's rich, moisturised Mediterranean cheeks.

He could smell the aroma coming off her well- oiled curls, and perhaps a bit of the perspiration and salty tears too.

And if he needed more ammunition to fuel the doubt that he was going mad, he could have sworn that he heard disjointed voices talking about ever now and then.

_"…Leave him __**alone**__… "_

_"No, you don't understand…"_

_".. already done enough damage…we don't need your charity-"_

_"There are greater forces at work…if I am not there to protect…both of you may wind down a path of irreparable harm…"_

"Ahh.", Matt finally heard a voice which seemed tangible enough, shoes soles tapping against the floor perhaps a bit louder than it should have been, he reckoned, as someone arrived by his bedstand, "I see the boy has woken, hasn't he?"

Elektra lifted her head off his chest and allowed the doctor to take a seat beside him, while he strained to get a grip on who this was supposed to be.

Was this what it was going to be from now on? Tons of guesswork about the slightest things? It hadn't been fifteen minutes since he had been awake, and already he felt like a lost child without his eyesight.

"Well, Matthew- My name is Dr. Suresh- Chandra Suresh. I would ask you if you were feeling fine…but well, we both know that is not the case."

Matt nodded, perhaps a bit too dejectedly, for he could hear the apologetic tone in Dr. Suresh's voice as he begun again, his English fluid and unassuming, more akin to a CSU alumni than a Rhodes scholar it seemed.

"I know that you are experiencing a profound sense of loss. But, at this point, there is not much we can do about your eyes. A cornea transplant is probably too-"

"I understand.", Matt spoke abruptly, not allowing the doctor to finish the sentence. He would not have his father be belittled in any way while he was still alive- and he certainly didn't need to hear that Steel Paw Murdock could not afford an eye operation for his son.

"Okay, then. The lingering effects of the operation should have faded by now. Tell me- are you experiencing a gradual relief from dizziness? A sense of…burgeoning enlightenment harkening at the door?"

Matt nodded once again, this time a bit more slowly, unsure as to where the doctor was taking this approach towards.

"Well- that's the beginning of the rest of your sensory perceptions acclimatizing to the shift in balance caused by the loss of visual input, Matthew. Over time, you may notice that you are picking up certain things- smells, noise, taste and such, with greater accuracy than you would previously…"

"Of course,", Dr. Suresh hastened to add when he saw the momentarily darkened features of the young man, "such little gains can never amount for such a tremendous loss. But we have to take what we get, you see?"

Matt nodded once again, a new thought making it's way through his mind as Elektra ran a tender hand through his hair.

"…Dr. Suresh, I _**have**_ been noticing things. It's probably nothing but, I hear all sorts of things now, and…"

Dr. Suresh seemed considerably perked up this tidbit of information, and his voice was reasonably more optimistic than before as he began once again.

"Is that so? Hmm, Matthew, I would like you to _**focus. **_See if you can pick up anything else from concentrating solely on your hearing. Can you do that now…?"  
Matt nodded for the fourth time, though feeling a bit ridiculous as to exactly how he was going to 'concentrate' on his ears. It wasn't like there was an on/off switch somewhere that he could flip to turn his attention solely towards his hearing- but he tried anyways.

And then- his skepticism was completely crushed to dust as he felt a barrier- more metaphorical than anything else, fall away…though what came next was entirely unexpected.

He felt like his brain was being stampeded over by thousand elephants- myriads of noises acting like hammer blows to his skull and cortex. He screamed- and even that felt like a cut from the sharpest dagger. He tried to shut it off- but it would not. It was like he had opened the gates to a flood, and there was no way whatsoever to somehow ram the gates in against the overwhelming flow.

"What is **happening** to him, doctor?", Elektra screamed as well, as nurses begin to rush to his side, one of them preparing to sedate him while Dr. Suresh merely stared on dumbfounded, as though someone had just dropped a ton of rocks on his skull and he hadn't even noticed.

Elektra marched over to him, her body shaking once again, and she gripped the doctor's shoulders tightly and shook him as hard as she could.

"Don't you just **stand** there, dammit!"

"I don't understand…complications such as this are highly unusual…I…I just don't understand."  
Neither did Matt Murdock- for the next seven agonising months of his life. But it was only the start of his troubles, and he knew even then that things could only get downhill from there on.

But at least…he had his father. And they would soldier on together- no matter what the odds.

* * *

_Present Day_

_11:05 PM_

It had taken him the entirety of the last seventeen minutes to locate the ornate jar where he assumed the key was- but the demon remained as perseverant as ever, approaching it ever so slowly.

He wondered how long it would have taken the others to figure the layout of the room- but truly, he still had not found any repeating pattern through the bizarre, maze like construct. At times, it felt like he was inside a hexagon- and then, he would have to withdraw his assumption once again, as though the very design was made to stir doubt within one who ventured for long inside it's walls. There was very little he could take for granted- at times, the space was so wide that his radar- like senses almost felt useless in pinpointing his position. Then there were times when the walls were extremely steep, almost requiring him to squeeze through them. It is as if the architect was looking to induce both agoraphobia and claustrophobia amongst those who dared to seek the prize hidden deep within. But was it really within?

Doubts like these, and many others, had assaulted his resolve, but he had kept a level head and let himself be guided by his inner instincts. And indeed, it had served him well, he remarked, as his hand reached for the large ceramic handle.

Just as soon as he gripped on it, though, he felt the air being pierced- and sure enough, the whooshing sound rang through his ears, and he swept downwards almost instantly, twin arrows intersecting at the point where his temple had been only a moment earlier. He had scarcely gotten hold of the jar firmly enough that he had to leap off his feet overhead in a fluid motion, a bronze spear skewering through the table cloth, passing cleanly through the point where he had taken cover. When he landed on the ground two seconds later, he almost expected additional countermeasures to buzz into action immediately, but he sighed in relief when his fears were unconfirmed- for the time being at least.

When he had taken the key out of the jar, however, no hidden gears sprang to life to reveal any alternate path which may lead him out of the maze. He grimaced, turning his head back towards the haphazard path which he had followed- now again had to embark upon, it seemed.

There were no such things as shortcuts when it came to Stick. Not that he had any doubt about that fact by this point, truth be told.

Patience was the key, he told himself once again as he proceeded through the room in reverse. That was one of the many things his father had taught him, he remembers- and his thoughts drift back with fondness to that stormy night when he had clung to every word of the commentator coming off from the TV- cheering for his dad as he took every blow and gave Carl 'Crusher' Creel everything he had for the UFA Heavyweight title.

Even then, the words of Gene Colan stirred into life into his brain, each syllable punctuated in his trademark booming manner and the roar of the crowd clearly to be heard even as he barked like there was no tomorrow into his microphone.

* * *

_29__th__ November, 2007_

**Madison Square Garden, New York**

"…Aaand that's the end of round nine, folks! I gotta say- and I am sure those who appreciate this fine sport will agree with me- the spectacle we are bearing witness to is sure to go down as one of the hardest fought bouts in the history of UFA! ", Gene 'the Deal' Colan boomed into his microphone, his robust vocals easily a decibel higher than even the roaring crowds as the two athletes were separated from each other by several referees and sent to opposite corners of the square ring- both Steel Paw Murdock and Crusher Creel eyeing each other with venom and determination; neither champion nor contender willing to give the other an inch if they had any say in it.

Jack coughed up some blood as one of the referees applied a block of ice to his several swollen bruises- his hazel eyes looking past the host of black and white-striped officials and towards the large, digital stop-clock hanging from the ceiling.

"Only ten more goddamned minutes,", he said more to himself than anyone else.

"Actually, _no._ Jack, you have got…_**eight **_more minutes for you to get your **act** straight." An arrogant drawl sounded from the ringside- and Jack's bloodied face darkened immediately, for he would have recognized that voice- and it's owner even amongst the thronging crowd of 96,000 there in the garden.

Joe Slade stood by the red and blue striped ringpost- his lean, almost sickly figure towering amongst the officials and cameramen around him, one hand stuck in the pocket of a cheap brown leather jacket worn over a simple white shirt and black tie; the other hand stuck in a packet of pistachio nuts as he grinned at Jack like they had been the best of pals since second grade, his over-oiled dirty blonde hair falling around his roughly shaven cheeks.

He may have looked like a caricature out of one of those Saturday 'toons from the 70's- but Jack had enough sense left in him still to know that any man able to throw a wad of cash at him back in his locker room the way and ask him to throw this fight in the match at a crucial point- specially around the 8th minute of the final round- this man was not someone to be taken lightly, at all.

How he had gotten past the security to ringside, Jack didn't have the foggiest- he always had his suspicions about how clean the management at UFA really was, but he wasn't going to throw allegations around at the slightest whim either.

Still, at the very least he knew that this man was bad business no matter what way he looked at it.

"…I see you are having second thoughts about our deal, eh?", Slade spoke while he munched down on his favourite snacks. He had Jack's undivided attention even as trainers and assistants barked instructions and offered multitudes of advice- everything in a manner of controlled chaos, on both ends of the ring.

But Slade didn't offer Crusher Creel to throw the match, now did he?

"Here, let me _ease_ your doubts.", he offered, lifting his hand out of his pocket to reveal a cell-phone clutched in it. He pushed his salt-laced fingers upon the buttons a couple times, and then held it up high above his head, the screen pointed directly toward's Jack- whose eyes widened in horror as he realised what was playing on it.

A young man lay asleep in a hospital bed- his mouth slightly agape as he writhed every once and then. The angle from which it had been taken from seemed to suggest that it was from a CCTV feed- not that Jack cared about that in the slightest.

If Slade could get hold of security footage of his son being in intensive care- he was damn sure that he could have made that video himself in person if he wanted to.

"Now…if everything goes hunky-dory, the kid gets the best treatment money can buy. We guarantee that.", Slade assured him, as an official behind prepared to ring the bell to announce the start of the final round, "However…if you _**do **_fail to make our ends meet here…well, I guess I don't need to articulate how bad it is going to be. Forget these thousands of French fry- eating fata**es- **big **men are watching this match tonight, and they need you to fall. Don't disappoint them, capiche?"

And then the bell rang- and Jack turned his attention once again towards Creel. The bald-headed man circled the ring with deceptive agility, almost like a viper- but he had the strength of a mountain lion to back up his speedy strikes.

Crusher Creel was definitely the least of his worries though.

"Whoa, and Creel rushes in early for a quick finish," Gene's voice boomed through the speakers as soon as the first stone is cast, so to speak, "but Steel Paw is quick to move away and try a counter-jab of his own- but Creel blocks the right hand with ease! You guys just have to admire the tenacity of these two athletes- they are sure giving us a hell of a show even though you can see both are knocked up pretty good by this point…"

* * *

_11:32 PM_

"Well, I will be." Blackhawk scoffed in surprise, his drooped head lifting off the stone table where he and five of his contemporaries had sat down when he saw the crimson clad figure of Daredevil appearing out of the darkness, a shimmer of silver to be seen held in his gloved hands as he walked down to his Sensei.

"I think we have a new record holder amongst ourselves, folks. Hey Viper, weren't you the fastest one before…? Took you something like two whole hours didn't it?"

"So says the one who took a quarter of a day to pass the trial of Discovery.", Viper retorted, her tone graceful yet piercing at the same time as all of them rose from the table, their Sensei once again leading them on a narrow path through the dim grotto.

How his sensei and Stone had managed to have something of this scale and magnitude constructed underground in this day and age, Daniel Rand had not the foggiest clue. And he would rather not find out, he mused inwardly as Clint Barton, not far away behind him, took no more than five seconds to fire up a return volley in this short battle of words with Viper.

"Well, in my defense, I fell asleep midway because it gets, you know, a tad bit _**boring **_trying to find your way through a never ending maze. And the fact that I didn't exactly have an Ipod with some catchy tunes in it didn't help my struggle with drowsiness either. Though I think, back then…how long was it? '89? Jesus, Walkmans were probably still going through development hell in that year-"

"**Hem Hem**.", Stick cleared his throat loudly, his eyebrows narrowed in mild, but obvious irritation as he stopped by an altar, while Stone dragged a large cauldron against the floor and brought it near to where the solemn Daredevil stood.

Stick took the key from his disciple's offered hand, and inserted it's tip into a small keyhole on the apparent altar's right side, a small compartment being revealed a second after, containing a wooden spoon and a cup. Not only that, they looked ancient in origin, Daniel noticed.

Of course, he remembered almost verbatim what Stick had said it purportedly was during his initiation, and those words were not terribly astray from the words being used by Stick then.

"What you see before you, boy, has history steeped not only in the blood of tyrants but of those who served as the deliverers of Fate as well. For these was the cup in which Nymphadora brewed her poison, in taste sweet as the purest honey but fatal to Alexander the Great when she offered it to him, claiming it to be the legendary Ambrosia, fit for one who claimed to be the spawn of gods. It was also this cup from which Spartacus, in madness, took his last drink, the blood of his comrade Crixus, to whom he was oath-bound to protect and fight alongside as his own brother, and upon his demise, the rebellious gladiator went almost insane. But it was this insanity, too, which lent him the strength to slay Marcus Crassus, even as ten spears and thirteen arrows lay embedded in his body. A millennium later, Xian Shao drank tea in it, and moments later his arrow found the head of Genghis Khan even though he was a mere scout stationed at a long- thought abandoned tower."  
Stick took a couple spoonfuls from the cauldron and poured it onto the cup, the liquid a dark teal green in color, though changing shades ever so slightly as Stick swirled it three times with the spoon before offering the cup to his disciple.

"Whether this is poison, an elixir of insanity- or that of strength, even_** I **_do not know. One can never truly predict the hand he is dealt with by Fate- he can only _endure _it, whatever it may be. This is the trial of **Endurance**, cub."

The demon nodded respectfully towards his sensei, before taking the cup. He hesitated only for the smallest of moments before draining its contents in full- and then he waited for whatever effect may come.

"Well, at least he drank it with minimum fuss, eh?", Iron Fist said to no one in particular as all waited for the effects to surface, the atmosphere so thick as though a veritable rain cloud had just appeared overhead.

* * *

_29th November, 2007_

**Madison Square Garden, New York**

Jack groaned in pain as a thunderous kick to his shin left him on his knees- but moments later Creel did not provide Steel Paw with the opportunity to do even that when he smashed his thigh into the man's nose, sending a stream of blood and bits of bones flying off his face as he went down on the mat. And the crowd went _**wild.**_

Crusher Creel always had his fair share of supporters in main events for the last couple of years- and he was a fairly popular champion too, ever since he knocked out Anton "Dynamo" Vanko a year ago.

Of course, all this meant squat to Jack Murdock, whose bleary eyes were directed towards the stop-clock overhead- it read "2:16". He turned his gaze towards Slade, who nodded vociferously as the referee began the countdown.

"…Ohh, this looks to be the end of the line for Steel Paw Murdock.", Dean Colan spoke with a touch of anxiety into his microphone, "He has shown _**tremendous**_ determination this past few months as he climbed through the ranks to become the number one contender- but his little run seems to have been brought to an end courtesy of a brutal knee from Creel…"

"10!"

Jack tried to push himself off the mat, but his arms were starting to buckle by then. Still, he guessed he should make a show at least- make it more believable to the crowd…

"9!"

In all his years in the league, he would never had figured that he would be thinking like an actor rather than a combatant- as though he was doing a match- finishing spot like they did in 'pro' wrestling. The very thing he had abhorred in all twenty-five years of professional combat- he was now being party to, he remarked grimly.

"8!"

His gaze fell on an empty seat by the ringside- vacated moments ago by an official who had been called away for some reason. Must have gone to prepare to call the match off already, he decided- he sure looked the part of being a gone deal anyways.

"7!"

As pain and dizziness started to get the better of his mind, for a second, it seemed to him that Matt was sitting on that empty chair- completely healed, his turquoise eyes beaming at him like the accident hadn't even happened all those months ago. Then the vision passed as soon as it came, and Jonathan Murdock was left to his own miserable thoughts once again.

"6!"

He remembered the promise they had made to each other- to always to do right by each other, no matter what the odds. That they would soldier on, as long as they had each other by their sides. Their hearts beating as one- he believed were the words Matt used in a rare moment of emotion.

"5!"

Creel wandered over to the prone form of Jack Murdock- and even as the referee was but 4 seconds away from announcing his victory, he had a look of discontent plastered clearly on his face as he peered down at the face of his opponent.

"4!"

"You still have some fight left in you, Murdock. Now get up."

"3!"

"What…?"

"I said….**GET UP, YOU IRISH F***!"**

And then, Jack did something he knew he would regret for the rest of his life.

With strength and agility that surprised even himself, he used his hands to springboard off the mat feet first, his left foot hitting Creel's jaw squarely and sending him flying off a good four inches of the mat.

"...My God, Steel Paw has made a miraculous comeback! Creel is taken completely off-guard by that unorthodox maneuver- and he can't even counter as Murdock throws rapid punches into his gut- and, ohh, look at him! He's going for the **biiig** finish!"

The rush of adrenaline blocked all reason- all logic screamed at him to stop throwing his fists at Creel like there was no tomorrow and leave the best opening possible in his stance so that the man could knock him back to kingdom come- but the old fighter in him refused to listen. That old fighter swung his right as hard as he could at Creel's exposed jaw- and down the champion went in a spurt of blood and bone, as a large THUD! could be heard even by those watching the event on pay-per- view.

"….Five! Ladies and gentlemen, our champion is out cold! We are on the cusp of a historic win!…Eight! Nine! Ten!"  
The bell hadn't rung for two seconds when the crowd. Went. **Wild.**

"It's over! My good lord, what a dramatic end to the match- and look at Murdock's staff almost stampeding over everyone else as they rush to his side. We have a **NEW** world heavyweight champion, folks- and Steel Paw can't seem to wait to get that belt in his hands. He whips over the ring, and he seems to be looking for something on the mat….but the crowd just can't get _**enough **_of this guy, and…..did Steel Paw Murdock suffer one too many blows to the head? The referee is handing him title gold, but his eyes seem to be fixed on a packet of…."  
The Spanish commentator, Ruiz Hernandez, seated beside Dean whispered a few words to his ears, while Jack took the belt from the referee, perhaps in far too much haste, for he didn't even bother to hoist his prize high for all of the world to see- instead, he marched- almost bolted straight off the ring and towards the entrance ramp. Half dried blood and bruises covered his 6'3" frame- and his ears were still ringing from that last blow, but he couldn't afford the time to have his injuries tended to.

Slade had been nowhere to be seen from the moment Creel had dropped to the mat- and Jack didn't need to be a savant to know where he would be headed now that he had failed so spectacularly in their deal.

"…Wait, Ruiz, are you saying that was pistachio nu…whoa, our new champion seems to have excused himself from the ring. Folks, this has _got _to be one of the strangest celebrations I have seen from a newly crowned- champion ever since the _**Hypno Hustler**_ won the Bantamweight division back in '81…"

* * *

_Present Day_

_11:40 AM  
_

"….UAGGHHHAHHH!"

Daredevil gripped the sides of the basin tightly, the stench of his own vomit setting of ten different kinds of alarm bells within his mind as he continued to regurgitate, the effects of the elixir clearly taking their toll on this physical well being by this point.

This was not just conventional pain, though- Matt could swear his very muscles and nerves were being twisted this way and that- as though being gradually reshaped into something else- something inhuman even, he feared.

Now he understood why, despite there having been whole generations of those with considerable affinity to Fate's call- were there so few known assassins who had truly served as hands of the ever enigmatic mistress. The vomiting had stopped- but the horrible feeling within intensified- he could feel his bones being shifted now. As to confirm his suspicions, he could hear a faint tearing sound- no doubt, due to the leather in his uniform being strained under the sudden expansion.

Even his mental balance was starting to become dangerously skewed- once again, noises and sounds entered unbidden, too loud and too rapid for him to have any hope of discerning them at all.

He wondered, as he fell to his knees, his fingers still defiantly gripping the basin, small crack already appearing over it's dirty surface- he wondered, if this was the penance he was supposed to pay for straying so far from the path of angels.

Perhaps, his mother even had a hand in this, this unbearable act of suffering and restraint that he had to endure through, no matter what.

Her own way of chiding her wayward child, who had given into darker temptations and thought himself better than to follow the creed like every good Roman Catholic should do.

He grimaced, perhaps more in defiance than anything else, as the pain continued to course through his body. He knew only too well, that this was no world where winged angels abided. All his faith in the frail laws of men and religious doctrine had all but evaporated that cold, cruel night.

* * *

_12:02 AM_

_30th November 2007_

Dr. Chandra Suresh was absolutely bewildered at being disturbed at this late hour; indeed, if he hadn't had to stay back to finish up a couple of notes that had been long due he would never have run into the imposing frame of Jack Murdock- whose attire, a denim jacket over a plain white tee and grey training pants, a large duffel bag slung over his shoulders- seemed awfully tactless for such a late hour as well- but the desperation displayed so clearly in his wide, hazel eyes that the good doctor could scarcely prevent himself being literally dragged by his arms to the room where his son, Matthew, lay asleep.

"...Doctor, listen, there are…complications. I need to move my son out of here. _**Immediately.**_"

"_What_..? Mr. Murdock- although your son's bones have healed completely by this point- he is still at too precarious a state to be moved! Not to mention that the regulations concerned with-"

"Doctor- his **life **may be in danger. There is no one else within a hundred miles that I can trust with this but you. I need you to-"

The doctor finally jerked his arm away from the frantic man, as they stood but metres away from the door that lead to his son's room, the hallway they now stood in all but deserted.

"Look, sir, if you are not telling me something…if you are indeed telling the truth, then the entire _hospital _might be at risk…"

Jack Murdock doesn't wait to allay the doctor's doubts about his intentions- but rather barges in through the door- rushing towards the bed where his son lay wide awake- his pearly whites fluttering here and there as his grabbed the bed sheet tightly.

"Dad...! Is that you..?"

Jack doesn't even pause to reply, but merely reaches in and wraps his hands around his son's head tightly, cradling him against his chest, against his heart thumping erratically even then.

Matt could feel the tension- the sheer fear being exuded from within his father as he helped him get off the bed- it somehow made his own heart quiver in fear.

Even after everything that he had lived through these last months- being confined to this one room, coping with his loss of sight- everything seemed to pale compared to…

"…Well, well…ain't that something to get all teary-eyed about?" an unknown voice leered at them- and when Jack turned around a moment later, he saw the towering figure of Slade standing by the door to the bathroom- his rugged features visibly wet and his lips spread wide in a sinister grin as one hand lay firmly gripped around the butt of a small, but nonetheless deadly semi-automatic- the Beretta 9000.

"Finally! You know, my trigger finger was awfully itchy the whole half an hour I have been here- but I held on..! Like the good Catholic I am. Would be very rude of me to just kill your blind beauty here without you being there to see it, eh? But praise the lord- here you are after all! I get to sent the pair of you to the pearly gates, and-"

The deranged gunman stopped abruptly, his head darting to his 2'o clock, fixing immediately upon the horror- struck figure of Dr. Suresh, who seemed frozen in his tracks between the partially open door. He immediately whipped the barrel of the Beretta squarely towards the man's temple- a hunter staring down it's barrel towards his prey, much akin to a deer caught in the headlights.

"Sorry, doctor- **no** visitors allowed after 9! And that means-"

The gunshot, while restrained in noise due to the sub-nosed barrel, was still enough to rattle Matt's ears- but what he did not know was that moments before his father had lunged forward, his movements swift and brutal as he caught hold of Slade's hand and tried to wrestle the gun off. The resulting stray shot grazed Dr. Suresh's shoulder, but still that was enough to send the 56-year old man down on the ground in a howl of pain.

Jack drove his right foot towards Slade's right knee, a horrible crunching sound occurring just as his boot broke through the soft bone. A yelp escaped from Slade as he went down on his knees- and Jack raised his hands to deliver a haymaker that would surely disfigure the killer for life- but he had forgotten that the Beretta was still gripped tightly in Slade's hands.

This time, three shots were fired- and their terrible echoes seemed to go on inside Matt's mind for eternity, and he screamed- he screamed until his throat gave out, even as he rushed towards his father, blood gushing freely from three small bullet wounds on his chest- right where his heart should be.

Slade didn't even pause to gloat- he merely ran as fast as he could with his injured leg and pried open the window, jumping down without a second thought on to the fire- escape a floor below.

Matt fell to his knees by his bleeding father- his fingers running over the gaping wounds, as though trying to close them with his bare hands, somehow. Gone was the young, confident man- a thoroughly shaken small boy was left in his stead. He longed for his sight once again- if only for just the one second, if only to see his father at this moment.

Jack's right hand was shaking wildly, as he coughed up some blood- even reaching into his pocket was an enormous struggle. In his deliriousness- he did not know what he had clutched on to so tightly as though anything and everything depended on it- but he simply entrusted it into his son's trembling palm. His hazel eyes stared deep into Matt's own pearly ones- and tears wanted to break through the flood gates, but he had only so much strength left for these last few moments. So many regrets, so many unsaid disappointments, he had hidden from the gem of his life- but he wished he could have said just how proud he was of his son. To soldier on despite everything that had befell them in these last few months. He opened his mouth with enormous effort, trying to say one last goodbye.

But his body gave out before he could even utter the first syllable- and his hand went limp, right in Matt's own trembling hands.

Matt, grief starting to overwhelm his senses- almost subconsciously ran his hand over the small card his father had handed him- some sort of diagram. Of a…stick, it seemed?  
It pricked against his finger, and for the barest fraction of a second, he could feel warmth coming off it.

Not that it mattered.

His whole life had been shattered by three bullets- and his father lay dead. Gone. Forever. He just couldn't grasp it all.

"_I couldn't feel his heart within me anymore. Even fifteen minutes later, when the doctors and the police had to pry my hands off him- I was still desperately searching for his presence. That, he would return for me, somehow- he had to. We had made each other a promise- and Jonathan Murdock always held to his promises._

_I…still search for him, somedays. Go through his clothes- his fighting gear, work a couple of hours on that bench he used to work on. _

_Of course, I had to sell it all off when the crunch hit a year ago- but I held on to his chair. The one that mom had bought for him three years before her illness. He really liked that one- used to say, he felt like he was in the company of angels. Of course, it was really ugly, from what I remember- nothing to write home about. But it made him feel at peace. Like plain old Jack Murdock, he said._

_Sometimes, I can still smell his Old Spice on cheap handles. Mixed a bit with his sweat from a decent workout in the morning, splashed with a little bit of coffee that he always used to spill no matter what every Monday morning he was home…_

…_.I could never give up that chair._

…_They never caught the guy. This Slade. Sometimes, I just want to scour the world looking for him- to learn the truth of why he had to murder my father. Sometimes, I want to wring the guy's neck- to choke him to death with pistachio nuts. The smell- in nightmares, I can still sense it. That cheap oil, those salted nuts…._

_It's strange. People are frightened of seeing bogeymen in their sleep. Me? I have nightmares about salted pistachio nuts and coconut oil. "_

_

* * *

_

**The Ludus**

_12:36 AM_

Daniel Rand looked up apprehensively as a figure exited out of the small room- the dark crimson costume that he had worn now distorted in an eerie way, some small cuts available on the stubble-ridden face of beneath his cowl as he approached his Sensei once again. They had waited in front of that altar for more than an hour now- and even Stone seemed somewhat cautious as he and his master inspected the still form of Daredevil- noting the subtle changes in his physique, an overall more menacing posture being notable in his stance.

As though to further confirm his suspicions, the entirely-white clad Doctore threw a fast palm strike directly at the demon's unguarded face- who merely raised two fingers in front- and the impact with Stone's open palm, although firm, immediately pushed him back by a good two inches.

"Hah…! The fates favour you well, it seems. Your reflexes seem doubly fortified by their will!", Stone laughed as a smiling Stick lead Daredevil towards the altar- where a small, ornate dagger lay with a serrated edge, beside a small bronze bowl filled with blackish liquid. Once there, Stick cleared his throat and addressed his student once again.

"Cub, now there but remains one final trial. It is nothing else- but the trial of **Acceptance. **Whether or not fate truly decides to bestow such a burden on your shoulders- it will be dictated by the appearance of the _mark_. Roll up your sleeves, boy."

Daredevil nodded, taking off his right wrist plate and then folding up the edge of the leather undersheath. He held up his exposed skin to Stick, who dabbed the edge of the dagger in the bowl a few times, and then held it in front of his eyes for all to see as black drops fell from its edge little by little.

"Kneel."

The demon nodded, and stepped aside, getting down on his knees while his arm remained still extended, as everyone else rolled up their sleeves as well- for such was customary in this final part of the Rites.

Muttering indecipherable arcane incantations, Stick pressed the tip of the dagger softly against his skin- and it dug into his flesh immediately, so sharp it still remained. He moved its tip around the surface for a few more seconds in intricate patterns, before withdrawing it from the cut flesh at length, and wiping the remaining fluid off with his fingers.

He then drew his own sleeves up- and when he touched the place where he had cut the demon's flesh with the dagger, he saw that the tiny wounds had already begun to heal in earnest. He smiled serenely once again, before muttering one final incantation- and Matt felt as though he has had an epiphany.

A burning glow stems at newly healed flesh- and he reflexively reached for it with his other hand, but stopped himself from touching it, lest it disrupt the process. This time he doesn't feel pain- but rather, a sort of afterglow, a lingering feeling of righteousness sweeping through his entire being- and moments later, a minuscule symbol flashes into life right where the dagger had cut. The black ink shined as though someone had just drawn with it but moments ago- and although he couldn't _see _it, he could feel the presence of the mark. Still eyes of a horned demon peered back at him from his flesh- and at the same moment, six other symbols appeared on the hands of the other Hands of Fate. That of a Fist, burning with fiery power.

A faded image of a Gladiator, his helmet worn and a glimmer of madness and glory to be found in those solemn eyes staring out of the ancient slits.

A Hawk, its wings drawn to it's side as it's deadly eyes searched keenly for it's prey.

A Viper, its slippery tongue dangling out of it's scaly mouth as it looked ready to strike.

An unassuming Stone, stretched in a slingshot, a hand gripped upon the wooden handle.

And- a simple staff- a Stick, a strong hand gripping it at one end as power radiated from the other.

"Welcome, cub", Stick spoke proudly, "Welcome, at last- to the **brotherhood.**"

* * *

_A/N: So ends Anathema! Hope you folks enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. _

_A couple of tidbits- some elements in this arc are taken a bit from Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale's Daredevil: Yellow. Also, there are plenty of hints scattered throughout the arc of future storylines- can you folks catch where and what they are...?_

_Anyways, the title of the next arc is called "Purple."  
_


	7. Issue Six: Purple Part I

_"Color is my daylong obsession, joy, and torment." -Claude Monet_

_

* * *

_

**94th Police Precinct, Brooklyn**

Officer Jared Lucas sighed as he took his seat by the report desk, his eyes darting downwards as he felt the navy blue uniform shirt strain against his bulging belly.

It may have taken the entirety of the last fifteen or so years in the force for that to happen- but nonetheless, Lucas wasn't entirely fond of the fact that he was letting himself go at the tender age of forty nine.

He ran a dark hand over his thinning hair- and frowned. He could see now why junior- Carl Lucas had his head shaved bald two days after he had moved out of the family house. Kid probably didn't want to inherit his old man's receding hairline in advance, all things considered.

Fella had grown up to be one handsome wolf though, Jared mused with a smile to himself as he took a sip of the morning coffee, savoring the quietness in the station that was to be found on a Monday, at 7:30 in the morning no less.

The night shift had ended just a couple of hours ago, and the usual masses which populated the precinct halls- the beat cops, the endless streams of men and women of all ages and shapes and sizes coming in to file complaints of each and every slight known, real or otherwise imaginary, to mankind- and he had to greet every single one of them with a pleasant smile.

Well, at least the storm hadn't even _started _yet. A few more minutes of peace and quiet before it all…and plus, hey, Christmas was only two weeks away, right? Silver linings in black clouds and all that, Jared thought to himself with a relief.

"Well, old boy", he said to himself as he lifted the cap from the bottled water from his desk, and raised it to himself in a mock toast, "Here's to another day in your tireless crusade of getting off this crummy desk."

"Yeah Lucas,", the…well, rounded, is the more politically correct term, he supposed- lady seated in the desk right next to his winked at him, "Amen to that. And you _know_ who's all posed to take on that little beaut right there once you _do _leave."

"Heh, Eileen, you probably mean _if _ I leave. And…let me get this straight, you actually _want _this little bundle of joy?"  
"Ohh, don't forget that cherry on top now.", Eileen added with vigor as Lucas simply shook his head and smiled bemusedly at the poor girl like she had lost her mind, "Besides, not every one gets to be like Captain Stacy, right? Not everyone gets to live the dream."

"Hey, you can't really fault yourself on that if your dream's playing _**Danny Glover**_ to George Stacy's Mel Gibson, see-"

"Oh come on!", Eileen Jordan hissed playfully, "don't diss a brother like that. Even now, he could beat you eleven ways to Sunday, no questions asked."

"Lady, I don't want to brag, but I am pretty sure that I can definitely kick his a** pretty good by the time he finally stops saying that he's too old for that sh-"

Lucas stopped short when he noticed the lone figure walking through the swinging door- and he immediately recognised the familiar face of the female- fairly attractive for someone approaching her late thirties, dressed in a grey pullover along with blue slacks, jogging shoes still mired with mud as she practically marched towards his desk. The brunette's curled hair bobbed ever so slightly, while her hazel eyes were focused towards Officer Lucas in an intense gaze.

"Christ…", Lucas gasped as Eileen leant over to the side of the desk and opted to whisper the next few words to him as the indignant woman made her way through the station.

"Hey….isn't that the _Jones _woman? What's she doing here _this _early…?"  
He sighed deeply as he noted Pauline Jones was but a few steps away, straightening his collar as he worded the reply back to Officer Jordan.

"Isn't it obvious? She's going to stick it to me…real _good _it seems, too."

Pauline now pulled the chair aside in a swift motion, slinging her handbag over the handle as she took the seat. And though a literal crowd hadn't yet gathered around the desk yet- more than a few pairs of eyes were darting towards the new arrival, Lucas noticed out of the corner of his own pair as he tried to muster the best smile he could for this poor woman.

"So…is this how it's going to _**be**_, Jared?", she spoke at length, lips curled into an expression of quiet rage and disappointment as she stared daggers into Lucas' temple.

Lucas simply blinked a couple of times before replying, the uncertainty evident in his unassuming tone.

"…I, look, Pauline, I know that you are _hurting _right now, but-"  
"Don't you _**dare.**_", she didn't shout, but it seemed that it took every fiber of her self resolve not to, "Don't you dare presume that you know what it feels like. But you know what? What I am going through doesn't even hold a candle to what Jess' is probably going through right now."

"What would you have me do, Pauline? I maybe the guy with the family next door to yours, and I may have a job in the NYPD- but I am in no position to influence the investigation into-"

"You have been in this force for the last decade and a half, Jared! How could my daughter's file just lay there in bottom of those dozen other untouched files while hypocrites like Rafferty are busy doing photo ops and-"  
"Ms. Jones,", Officer Jordan interjected, a sobering expression etched on her face as she addressed the tormented mother, "We are doing all we can do about your daughter. But we can't help the fact that it's a slow process. "

"And our staff is stretched thin as it is.", Jared added, a bit more confident in his approach now that he saw that Pauline was somewhat willing to listen to his defense, "With all the disasters these last year- them _moloids_ bursting through the ground? The witch hunt for the mutants and that entire thing with this Magneto guy? People like Lieutenant Rafferty are doing _all_ they can to not turn the force into a regular point of attraction in the media circus. Superhuman crimes have gone through the roof. We…"

"You simply don't have enough time to look into the disappearance of an ordinary seventeen year old girl, is that it? Was that why you couldn't spare enough time for **Carl **when he got caught in that DEA bust at the Willis Stryker's place? Or were you just _disappointed _that your son wasn't special enough for you?"

"…No, he was a mighty fine boy…I just don't know what went wrong with…", Lucas tried to continue, but he felt his throat dry up,

"And where is he _now,_ Jared? Rotting in the state penitentiary? Wasting his youth away in-"

"That's **enough**, Ms. Jones.", Eileen butted in once again, for Lucas merely stared at Pauline with his eyes as stretched wide, completely unmoving as though his body had simply shut down on him. "If you really don't have anything to report here, I suggest that you kindly leave."

Pauline seemed ready to reply back with vigor, but she stopped when she saw the sheer sorrow that Officer Lucas was now trying to bury once again beneath his usual demeanor. She bit her lip as he realised what she had done- in her grief and anger she had probably hurt the one person who had stood with her the most in what was undoubtedly the most trying times in her life.

Her head drooped low, slender hand grazing her temple as she tried to regain her own bearings, but the onset of shame, and the exhaustion creeping in was starting to take it's toll on her.

She had gone to every possible avenue, done everything she could think of and more…but she wasn't making any headway whatsoever. Her personal life was in shambles. She hadn't gone to her accounting firm's office since….it seemed forever.

Like a lifetime ago, when things didn't seem so hopeless and distraught.

"I…I am sorry for what I said just now, Jared.", she muttered quietly, "…sometimes, I…just feel that, maybe, m-maybe, I should have never left Lyle. Maybe he…he could have been able to obtain more _substantial _results than…"

Lucas smiled warmly at her, his large hands reaching for her palm and squeezing them tightly.

"Hey, if you hadn't divorced that cheating scum, I am pretty sure I would have barged in there and kicked that living daylights out of him on your front lawn anyways…Listen, I know it's a tradition for us law enforcement folk to say that we can understand your pain. Your loss. But truth is, we don't even see the tip of the iceberg. And I know that, at least. So don't for even a second think that I am judging you, alright? No one is. It's just that…"

"…The world is a cruel place, right?", Pauline replied, "Jesus…it's been _**three **_whole months. I can't even know if my little baby is alive or dead...and you know what, Jared? There are times….there are times I pray to God that she is dead by now."

"Pauline! Don't say that! You are all she has right now. If you give up that little shred of hope-"

"Hope? The city is crawling with the worst bottom feeders of the world, for all I know. And there are…far worse people too. I don't even want to _think _about those kind of….What good can hope do in this situation..? God…."

* * *

_Two hours later_

**Hell's Kitchen**

Karen drew a deep breath in as she peered out of the window of the bus, taking in the quite regular sight of the usual hustle and bustle one would find in the city streets- and for many, if not most of it's denizens, it was a most uninteresting sight. But not to Karen Page. There was something _magical, _for the lake of a better term- to her about how so many individuals of different backgrounds and race and creed just went about their own way- some who were ambitious and daring enough to try to make their own mark on this world, while some were trying to just make it through another day of the big tumbling wheel of fortune that life had become in this current day and age of the recession.

But what amazed her the most, what made her so cautiously optimistic through it all- was that no matter who they were, or what they did, they all blended in seamlessly into the crowd. Each and everyone one of them, they had managed to carve out their own piece of space in the city somehow. Some were still struggling to find that kind of belonging- but she could tell that they knew it was not far beyond their grasp.

She knew that others would simply laugh off at her for harboring such naïve notions- but it was these kind of little things that kept her willing to get out of bed each dawn. Engage all her will, body and soul into her work- because, she believed, no, _knew _that all of it will pay off.

And that was probably her in a nutshell- Karen Page, mild mannered secretary for the fledgling law firm of Nelson and Murdock. Young, perhaps a bit too naïve, with wide, expressive aqua eyes which seemed set steadfastly at the proud noon sun and the starry skies at night. Quintessential believer of the American Dream.

Except that all that barely scratched the surface of what she was. She wasn't a wall flower. She had made mistakes at a young age like a million other misguided teens looking to fit in- and she had wasted a good deal of her life on the guilt trip, shutting herself off from the world and just wishing that she had die from the overwhelming shame.

But she had put all that behind her, a long time ago. For all that she was concerned, it was a brand new dawn- and she planned to make the full use of it.

Presently, she turned her head aside to check up on the young girl seated beside her- and Karen was mildly amused when her sister Katherine didn't respond to the gentle nudge, for her attention was given undividedly to the little graphic novel- that's what comics are supposed to be called these days, Karen mused- held in her hands, yellow hoodie slung low over her head as she continued to pore through the tiny text bubbles spread through the gaudy watercolor-like art.

"And what is my little J.K. Rowling reading up on, now?", Karen mused playfully as she peered at the exceedingly dark visuals.

Kathy lifted her head from her hands and turned towards her older sibling, the annoyance apparent in her cold glare as she made the short reply.

"It's nothing _you _would understand. Don't bother."

And then she drooped low once again, eyes intent on devouring each and every palette of mind-numbing colours that were splashed across each page- but Karen snatched it away from her in a swift motion, forgetting for a moment that Katherine Page was still your average teenager going through a phase and she was still the big sister who seemed to represent the annoying authority to said teenager for your obvious reasons.

She was charmingly innocent that way, was Karen Page.

She turned over to the cover and keenly observed the slanted, skeletal letters which spelled out the title- "MetaFiction- Beyond the Fourth Wall". The cover itself was somewhat slightly…_hypnotic, _she decided- a lone man's face dominated the dark background- one hand stretched out over his face, fingers touching some of the stray strands of loose, spiky black hair- a handsome mug, no doubt, but those eyes…they seemed to stare right through the paper. At the bottom, written in tiny letters were "_Written and Illustrated by: Z. Killgrave_."

"Hmm…mystifying."

By the time she had raised her eyes off the cover once again, Kathy was glaring a hole right through her, baggy eyes wide as tennis balls as he reached for the magazine.

"Give that back. **Now.**"

"Ookay. Geez.", Karen immediately let go off the book, "Relax. I wasn't trying to rip it in two or anything…"

Karen stopped short, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinised Kathy's face more closely now that the hood had fallen off in her hastiness to gain her prized possession back in her hands. She leant closer- and the more she saw, the more sterner her gaze became by the second. That taut skin, that sign of sheer exhaustion in her eyes- and those bags? Certainly didn't come from hours long of studying deep into the night.

She continued to stare intently towards her- wondering if she should charge head on with her suspicions- confront her about whether she had relapsed once again- but no. She wouldn't try to force her will on to her.

Karen had to give her the benefit of the doubt- she owed her at least that much. But she had to draw that little line between privacy and willful negligence as well. She would never forgive herself if something happened to Kathy on her watch, and-

The bus bell rang out, the shrill noise breaking Karen out of her reverie as Kathy turned towards her expectantly.

"Hey, isn't this supposed to be your stop?"

"…Yeah. Yeah, it is.", Karen nodded as she got off her seat and slung the handbag over her shoulders. "….Say, you want to go over to a Starbucks or something later this evening?"

"Starbucks?,", Kathy asked incredulously, amusement evident in her voice, "Nah…I am kinda busy this whole week, see? But ehh…you really want to get together for sometime later than that?"

"Sure, it's a date. Just take care of yourself until then, okay kiddo? Between my schedule and you living at mom's, this is about the only time we get even talking to each other, so…"  
"Hey, don't sweat it. Just make it somewhere less lamer than a Starbucks, alright?"

Karen nodded, a wide smile etched on her face as she hurried out of the bus before the conductor could start making a fuss about the delay she was causing.

She spared a glance to the bus as it made it's way off the stop, and then began to make her way through the burgeoning crowd. As she did so, however, she couldn't help but dwell on whether she had made the right call back then.

Eventually, by the time she found herself on the doorstep to the modest offices of Nelson and Murdock- though, she figured that she should stop worrying about that. It was a brand new day, after all- and there were enough problems in the office as it was.

Mr. Nelson wasn't in such a good mood these days, for one…

* * *

_Later that evening…_

**Nelson and Murdock's, Hell's Kitchen**

"Oh, for the love of **God.", **Fogwell Nelson, Attorney at Law, spoke through gritted teeth into the receiver, "Sir, you can't expect us to continue to represent Mr. Owlsley if he refuses to clarify as to his alleged connections to the-"  
A _click_ sound later, Foggy stared towards the receiver in disbelief. He was very, _very _tempted to chuck the entire phone right through the window, truth be told.

"I can't. **believe** .it.", Foggy muttered with resignation as he plopped onto the revolving chair behind his desk, "The only persistent client we have in the first six months of our illustrious venture is a goddamned recluse who won't even give us an official statement or crap like that about his 'alleged' connections to New York's crime scene."

"Relax, Foggy.", Matt assured his partner from over his desk, "We knew about Owlsley's background from day one. But trouble is- he is one _smart _businessman. Whatever business he does- he is sure making us jump through some hoops, isn't he?"

"….But what do you think, Matt? As Mr. Nelson says-"

"_Great. It took her the whole four days to call him Matt. Six months gone and she still calls me __**Mr**__. Nelson."_

"What?", Matt grinned at her as he continued to move his finger through the Braille transcript in front a the same time, "That he is this criminal character with a slightly cartoony moniker? We can't really extrapolate on what is probably just public conjecture at this point. But it's certainly _problematic _that he continues to retain our firm's services. I think Foggy agrees on that point. Don't you, Foggy?"

"Heh, yeah. We have the 'Owl' as our only retaining client. Not very original though, yeah? But you know, it gets me thinking…why can't we have the frigging Fantastic Four for our clients? I mean, yeah Susan Storm is filthy rich, and all that, but they have got to have this separate legal team for their public dealings, right? How else would they-"

"Is that what you want to be, Foggy Nelson?", Matt teased, "Lawyer to the stars?"  
"Better that than being the lawyer of the Birdman of Alcatraz, really."

"Hah!", Karen laughed, and it was so melodious and possessed such clarity that it struck both of the men present in that room like a miniature tornado.

And once again, unknown to her, they were both facing the elephant in the room.

"_I can feel that uncertainty stirring up within Foggy once again. His heartbeat is getting erratic. Breathing slightly off-balance. Spiced with that aftershave he applied, perhaps a bit too vigorously._

_We both know what he is really mad about."_

_"…He's had his chance. He's had Elektra. It's not my fault that they didn't work out. And Now Karen. Why __**her?**__ Why fall for the only girl I have fallen for the first time in my whole life?"_

It was then however, that a sharp sensation hit Matt's acute senses.

"Ooof!", he yelped as he grabbed his wrist instinctively, immediately noticing that it felt more like a prick of a needle, than a cut or something more grievous would entail- and it was in the exact place where he had received the mark as well.

"_And so am I called to act as Fate's messenger once again._

_It's feels like forever since the Rites."_

"…Well, it looks like I have to leave a bit earlier than I thought. Karen, I suppose I can count on you to finish up documenting that last case without any problems…?"  
"Well, I …suppose so, Matt.", Karen replied, a hint of uncertainty to be found in her tone.

More doubly noticeable to one whose four remaining senses had been amplified to the nth degree.

"…Well, this must sound like an oxymoron, Karen- but I think you don't look so good. You okay there?"

"I…Well, I suppose there's just something on my mind.", Karen admitted sheepishly, while Matt got up from his chair and picked up his beige coat from the coat-rails.

"Well, don't let it weigh you down too much, alright? See you later, then- and you too, Foggy. Don't pop a vein over our struggling finances just yet, right big guy?"

Foggy shook his head sarcastically as the door swung ajar, Matt leaving the two of them before any of them had a chance to ask him actually what had compelled the man to take an early leave.

"You know, Karen, the way he goes on somedays, I get this serious _Clark Kent _vibe off of him."

"Well, Mr. Nelson- I think a blind man going gallivanting around the city in bright spandex isn't exactly a sound idea, see? But ahh, he does kind of fit the build to a tee, though doesn't he?"

"Hah. Yeah that he does. He's his father's son in that department at the very least…But hey, just call me _Foggy, _alright?"

Karen nodded, her eyes staring at nothing in particular as she arranged the wide array of files spread throughout Matt's desk- her mind clearly clouded by other thoughts even then.

"..._Matt was right. There __**is **__something that's been bothering Karen all day….but, well, what could such a perfect gal like her have to worry about?_

_Beats me, though. And face it, Foggy, you don't really have any time to focus on the pedantic at this point._

_I knew from the get-go that the first year or two was always going to be this hard, but…geez, Matt isn't really helping our plight, is he? He seems too distracted some of the times. _

_Karen ain't the only one around here with something weighing on their minds, that's for sure." _

_

* * *

_

**The Brownstone**

"_Funny thing. I almost expected Stone to barge in through the Demon's Hole up in the attic."_

What the man, now geared up as his namesake, Daredevil, found as he crouched the oval orifice by the croft, though, was something entirely else- it cooed as he stroked it's feathers, though he could tell that this was no messenger pigeon. For one, it was considerably larger; and as its paw shifted slightly and reacted to his touch, he sensed that those movements were subtle, yet powerful- and when his fingers gently pried the letter clasped within its beak- he was definitely convinced that the curvature was infinitely more pointed and greater than any domestic bird could possess.

"_Definitely a bird of prey. But so…subdued in my presence. I never suspected Doctore to be a falconer…but then it is not as though I know any detail about the man who lies beyond that white veil. Fraternization among the Seven is not expressly forbidden- but generally avoided. _

_It allows one to forego attachment when the time comes for our soul to return to it's composite elements once again."_

It flapped its great wings as he passed his hands through the fine ink, noting that the ridge detail in the paper itself was much more…_immaculate _than he would have guessed.

The letter read as such:

To the Demon,

Considerable amount of time has passed since the Rites. It is my hope that your skill with the blade hasn't dwindled in the past few months. For they are to be called upon once again. New York is protected from threats from without by its various new, shiny protectors; but that doesn't stop oppressors from attempt to corrupt the city's essence from within.

One such man, by the name of Maynard Moses- also known as Moses Magnum in the Detroit crime scene- has arrived in this city, with the intent to barter a pact with another of the carrion, a petty and vindictive man who has taken on the name of the night creature, the Owl. They look to capitalise on the power vacuum left by the death of the prominent crime lord, Wilson Fisk.

You are to eliminate Moses Magnum, while the Owl will be dealt with by another, at a more auspicious time. Moses, meanwhile, has taken refuge in a brownstone in Brooklyn. One of many such ironically named holdings, 'safehouse', owned by his associates in the city, Moses plans to stay there for the night, while the meeting with the Owl is fixed for tomorrow. Location is ideal for the work the Fate has set before you.

For reasons of safety, details of location are not provided in this brief. Redwing, who delivered this to you, shall guide you there. Be gentle and respectful to the creature- for he is a prideful one. He comes from a long line of noble birds, strung across many species, from the Red-tailed Hawk tamed by the slayer of Genghis Khan in 13th Century Asia to the Golden Eagle that served as my companion throughout my journeys undertaken with Sensei. Before dying, Fang sired the mighty creature before you.

Do not be afraid to trust its guidance. It possesses more intelligence than one would allot to a winged beast of prey as he.

The news of your success shall be eagerly awaited by:

Your Doctore.

...

The demon sighed contemplatively as he walked down the stairs, folding the letter and tossing it into the smoldering flames in the fireplace. He adjusted his wrist plates, which he noticed were slightly offset.

He frowned. Perhaps he _was_ a bit rusty- rising concerns with his daytime profession had meant that he hadn't gone through proper training regimen for four weeks now- and even though he had gone through extensive re-training after the initiation to get the hang of his new center of balance, due to the substantial alteration that the process had triggered in his entire body- and it took him time, but he had finally gained mastery, or some degree of it, of his heightened reflexes and highly enhanced musculature. By the time he had finished, he could bench-press well north of 750 lbs. He hadn't really bothered to search for a definite upper limit after that.

He thought of this as he made his way back to the croft. How easily, he mused, that he could have been mistaken by any innocent bystander, had he allowed him/her to spot him- that they could have easily thought him to be part of that never ending wave of new age heroes- _super_heroes, they were called, of course in pop culture.

He stopped in front of the bird- or as Doctore had referred to him, Redwing. It screeched now; and the demon realised that there was a slight snag in the 'follow the bird' policy.

"Well, Redwing, I can't exactly _**see**_ you lead the way, now can I? Now how can I…"

Without any warning, Redwing simply took off it's temporary perch and soared high into the night skies, and screeched once again. It was shrill and it rattled his ears, to be frank, but Daredevil realised that he could actually pinpoint to some degree of accuracy, the height and exact placement of where Redwing hovered.

"Wow. You _are _a smart creature, aren't you?", Daredevil spoke in his characteristic baritone, as he himself brought out his crimson nunchucks and leapt off the 'Demon's Hole", as he had termed it, intent on following his winged pathfinder to his destination.

It was only then, as he hurtled through the cold air, wind whipping against his leather-clad figure, that he realised that he was about to embark on yet another quest of blood and death- and for a second, nay, the slightest fraction of it, he doubted his resolve.

He strengthened it doubly so the very moment later- for he could not afford to err in the moral department. He acted as an agent of Fate- to balance the cup from overflowing, and in this case the black liquid contained within that vessel contained a mixture of many a vice- tyranny and unrelenting greed foremost among those countless ingredients.

How could he falter in his resolve when people like Moses Magnum would never hesitate to carry on their black deeds as they are wont to do?

* * *

_An Hour and a Half later…_

Daredevil cautiously slid open the window pane, verifying that this was indeed the correct apartment he was sneaking into with Redwing, who screeched one final time- almost a whisper this time, before taking to the skies and deciding to return to its master, its task now done.

He immediately put his distinct sonar-like reading that was the result of the amalgamation of the highly sensitised input pouring on from his four remaining senses other than sight- he tapped the floor, but with the greatest precaution, the sound emanating from the contact inaudible to even the most acute dog ears. But to his auditory organs- not only were they perceived, but they mapped out a veritable roadmap of the run-down apartment as the sound-waves continued to travel through it, through every worn down wall and damp column and lice-ridden door.

And just as he had been told, he had the breathing of one individual just beyond the door.

However, his eyes widened when he realised that, not only was the breathing highly erratic, but that he smelled blood just beyond the door. Very fresh, and a considerable volume of it, too.

He immediately brought out his nunchucks from around his waist, and with a deep breath, pushed the door ajar.

"….Who's…agghh…who's that?", Moses Magnum groaned, three of the half broken teeth still hanging from his gum as he lay there, clutching his chest, slumped against the far side wall as he observed the lean figure quietly making his way through the carnage and destruction wrought through the bedroom.

The eyes of Moses widened even more as the man, still silent, now leant by his side, for he saw that he was dressed in the attire of a demon.

He had heard of these kind of outfits. Ninja assassins being hired out by the Yakuza and the like to take out their business rivals in the South-East. He hadn't heard that they had expanded to the West though.

"Look…if you are with that…aaarggh…psycho bitch who did this to me…then go ahead and gut me. I ain't afraid of the likes of you costumed freaks."

"…I am not with whoever has attacked you."

"You aren't?"  
"No."

The demon absorbed this all silently- and wondered what his next course of action should be. He could tell that there had been a struggle, and a violent one at that. The noise should have surely alerted the residents from the next apartment, at the very least. If not the whole brownstone- he could detect a healthy amount of heartbeats in the building. At least two dozen, he noted.  
Something was very, very strange about this location. But he just couldn't place it-

And then it happened.

A blur flew in through the front door, the noise being generated by the air resistance as it accelerated at an astonishing rate- set off twelve different alarms bell ringing off in Daredevil's head as he immediately turned himself around.

What he saw, in the split second he had before the figure was within throwing distance, was only this slender and outstretched _**fist **_that seemed solely intent on punching straight through his skull.

Thankfully, he swerved aside skillfully at the last moment before the blow could connect, and the fist went straight through the concrete wall.

It was at this precise moment, that the demon realised- he was facing an opponent entirely beyond his league.

The figure turned around now, and even as Daredevil leapt away to gain more fighting space, the figure lunged forward once more - the movements possessed too much speed to allow him any breathing space. What's more, they were beyond sloppy- totally uncoordinated, and the moveset consisted mainly of punches- crude and unpolished. But that didn't matter, the incredible strength alone would dislodge more than a couple of bones from his skeleton if he let any of the blows connect. Thankfully, his agility had seen to the matter that, in the minute that had passed since they began their tangle, she had touched neither hide nor hair of him.

Daredevil now threw one of the nunchucks around the enemy's wrist, and once it had wrapped itself around it, forming a tight ligature, he pulled, and once his opponent had gotten close, he drove an unforgiving elbow directly above the heart.

However, even as he heard the sound of ribs crashing under the pin-point pressure of his strike, he could not help but gasp as he realised that he had just struck the bosom of his female assailant.

She staggered back, and in this moment of her weakness, the demon hesitated. He did not who this was- but he realised this was not the time to ask questions. The blades slid out of the wrist plates- and he primed them, if not to fatally maim the girl, then to at least sufficiently incapacitate her before he could get to the bottom of this matter- but by then she had already recovered.

He had already thrust forwards his wrists, but by then her fists had flown towards his chin by reflex as well.

When it connected, he felt as though his head had been mashed between a wooden door and the force of a battering ram by a cohort of barbarian invaders as they broke down the gates to the fortress.

His body flew through the ceiling- blowing a sizeable hole in it, and hit the next adjacent roof as well, before falling to a bed with such force that it cracked in two instantly upon impact.

The roomful of people now stirred to the new presence- even as he tried to push himself off the wooden bed, groaning in pain as he felt his right collar bone shatter from the pressure. He screamed, balance wildly off as delirium and haziness threatened to overwhelm his conscious.

But he could still feel the people circling him. They stopped, though- right beside the broken bed.  
It frustrated him to no end. Their was something terribly wrong with these people. They did not _**move**_ right. Their heartbeats seemed to lack the vigor of a normal human beings. They made utterly no noise at all. They were simply cadavers- shells of what they were.

He could smell something unique on them…something he had never experienced before. It smelled _**horrible**_. He could not find any words to describe the utter revulsion he was starting to feel from that odour. Some weird sort of chemical, he decided as he struggled to get off the wooden wreckage, but to no avail.

He screamed once again as pain wracked through his body- and he knew that he should be thankful for his blessings- that punch would have killed any normal person instantly upon intact, and he only had a couple of fractures to show for it- but the pain sure as hell didn't help any of it. Finally, he managed to claw his way out of the wreckage, his hands reaching out for one of the motionless people who stood in front.

He clutched someone's hand- he did not who it was, but he could tell it was a child's, as tightly as he could. No response. He groaned as he let go, and reached for another. This time, it was a far more meaty frame, but delicate as well. A woman's. Still no stimulus. All he got was a slight slimy feel from their hands- they were sweating profusely. And the sweat itself seemed to consist of an unusual composition than he remembered.

He screamed once again, now in rage and frustration- towards his own helplessness, as the lithe girl who had punched him through the roof now appeared and touched down, a blank look on her eyes, as was on the eyes of all others.

He could not tell, but inwardly, each of them- every man, woman and child- were screaming as well. Inwardly, their minds despairing as they felt the foreign presence compel them to do it's bidding.

But they were all as helpless as he.

"Ughh. This is not exactly the kind of inspiration I was hoping for my next chapter, you know guys.", a male voice suddenly could be heard, steps clicking against the floor as the figure approached the group, "Seriously. I am trying to continue my life's work here, and I am struck by the mother of all writer's block. It's so huge a** like you dear folks wouldn't believe."

He stopped a few feet before the bed, and all the others parted aside to allow him a clear view.

Matt raised his head, the smell now intensified a hundred fold as the man approached him- and he realised that he was the person this smell had to originate from. The feeling was…**terribly **overwhelming. He felt as though his very will was being eroded by a hostile presence- invading his very mind. Trying to pull his strings like a puppet doll, even.

"You…**you** are the one who is behind all this.", the demon managed to speak as the blood loss was starting to finally gain the better of him, "Somehow, you are controlling their **minds**."

"_Touché._ And **you** win the no-prize for that acute observation. You have stumbled upon the humble abode of Zebediah Killgrave, my horned friend. I suppose you require some…exposition as to who I am, but ehh don't bother about it right now. You know what? Go to **sleep. **Like, right now."

Daredevil immediately lost hold of his consciousness, and his figure slumped to the floor, the head falling right on the right foot of Killgrave.

Killgrave stared at the prone form for the longest time- before giving a gasp of relief. At that exact moment, the skin around his wrists and a large portion of his face turned inexplicably…_**purple **_in colour.

"….Well, I guess I had better get to the panel by panel insets right this instant. Yeah, Jessica, I know. You too, Glenda, don't whine. I know that the spotlight has been on you folks for the last couple of issues, but hey, you have to make way for newcomers sooner or later, ehh?"

He turned around, a mile-wide smile plastered on his features as the purple paint slowly stretched through his skin, his hands gripping around the robe as he shuddered in the chilly breeze blowing in through the open windows.

"Oohh…I can feel the creative juices flowing now inside this cranium.", he declared, finger tapping the side of his temple as he grinned from ear to ear, "Yeah. yeah. I don't go near superhero mags with a ten-foot flagpole if I can avoid it, but…yeah, yeah, Jessica, you underage wh***, now shut the f*** up, will you?"

When he had reached the table, he simply threw all the existing sketches and half-finished storyboards off the desk with a sweep, and with fanatical fervor, grabbed new paper from the drawer.

"Yeah, I am using far more expletives than I normally do, but I am trying to get in the mindset of those new age decompressionist f****s who dominate that little corner of nerd heaven, see? Trying to see what's the appeal of it all."

He grabbed the 4B pencil from the stand and immediately began sketching out a new 3 by 3 panel layout, the scenes already being constructed inside his mind at a record pace.

"I can see it now. Plot moving at snail's pace. Teenage angst galore. Plot holes littering trashy scripts. Short attention span of readers. Easily satisfied. Those stupid, stupid f***s. **So **easily satisfied. They buy tens and thousands of that drivel. Keep it wrapped up in plastic bags. Stupid, stupid, **STUPID.**"

He wrapped the nightgown even tighter around his skeletal figure, as he paused for a moment, placing the pencil on his right ear by instinct as he moved to close the open windows.

"Times like these, I want to get my hands on God. I know I am better than the wannabes flooding the market. I can beat them at their own petty game of cat and dog."

He slammed the windows so hard that one of the panes actually cracked- but thankfully, it didn't shatter right away.

By then, his entire body, from head to toe, except those hauntingly cold blue eyes, and the mess of onyx hair- everything else had turned a dark shade of purple.

But Zebediah Killgrave paid no attention to that. His mind was more than merely preoccupied with tinkering around with his newest guest. He was starting to become absolutely _**obsessed.**_

"Yeah, I will do it. It's a challenge. Continuity inconsistencies be damned- I am going to blow them all out of the water. Ohh, my delightful cast, how could I ever thank you?"


	8. ANNOUNCEMENT: Title is to be Cancelled

Well, I am sorry to announce this- but he Currents-verse, the setting in which the story is taking place in, is basically being cancelled.

Most of the talented writers who have carried the line through the last several months are now either really caught up with life and all that entails, already have existing fan fic concerns at the moment to devote much remaining time to their Current-verse titles- or a little of both in some cases. While I do have a strong urge to continue on with this tale, I feel it is somewhat disrespectful to do that when others have decided to end theirs.

I have often professed before that I am a fan of character work- inevitably, any character that I come to use in my stories in some kind of extended role end up having this starting point and end-point in my mind- the trick most of the time is how I want to get them there and wind all their threads into a decent story. So it's going to be a bit sad to not carry those characters all the way through the finish line- Matt, Foggy, Karen, Iron Fist, even Purple Man to some extent, geez...!, Stick, Gladiator, Hawkeye- and especially Hawkeye! Elektra was going to have a really pivotal role too down the line, too.

It's hard to let this one drift away- but it's for the best, I suppose. I am doing too much writing for my own good at times- and scaling back down to two titles may be just what I needed. I apologise to anyone who may have grown attached to this tale, it's really hard to do this for me since I had this whole ship-load full of plans, and really precise ones too, for where this was supposed to go, but I hope things will work out for the best.

I would ask any readers for this tale to be on the lookout for when my original tale- The Mighty Guardian is finally posted in Fanfiction. Net. There's a fair bit of editing I would need to do to convert the script format there to the regular one- and oncoming mid-terms make it a bit too difficult to do that right now. Hopefully, the wait will be worth it when it's finally here.


End file.
